Forgetting You
by Flaming Trails
Summary: Forgotten Vows Verse: Part Three. Alice's Wonderland is calling her back to help save it (and by extension, herself) from a new threat. Victor's trying to keep an eye on her in the real world while dealing with his growing feelings for her. And Dr. Bumby. . .well, if he has his way. . .
1. A Most Upsetting Session

**Forgetting You**

A Corpse Bride/ "Alice: Madness Returns" Fanfic

By Flaming Trails

Chapter 1

September 7th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

2:32 P.M.

_It was – peaceful._

_That was what surprised Alice the most. Granted, she knew she'd left Wonderland in a better state when she'd abandoned it along with the asylum almost a year ago, but – she'd never really expected it to be peaceful again. Too much had happened during her long, painful trip to destroy the Queen – too much misery, too much suffering. And given the way this latest holiday into the depths of her subconscious had started – the Hatter attempting to surreptitiously slice her in two with a huge saw over tea in his shattered domain, the Queen of Hearts directing wave after wave of vicious Card Guards to tear her to pieces even as her palace collapsed into fiery rubble around their ears, the Jabberwock clawing his way out of the wreckage of the Liddell family home, crushing her family under his vicious claws while his mechanical lungs spewed out huge gouts of flame to roast her alive – well, Alice had expected nothing less than a descent into the deepest pits of Hell should she dare to venture into Wonderland itself._

_But now. . .the sun was shining, the air calm. Majestic trees spread their multicolored leaves over the gently-rolling emerald slopes around her, shading the river on which she floated. Beneath her lilypad boat, the bright blue water flowed steadily onward, without a single ripple from a poison-spitting Snark. Above her head, cotton-ball clouds drifted lazily through the azure sky, unmarred by Mechanical Ladybugs toting exploding acorns. And in front of her, clutching a cup of tea in one paw and consulting the pocket watch dangling from beneath his bright red coat with the other, was none other than Rabbit. Alice felt a smile spread across her face as she picked up her own teacup from the place setting in front of her. Her old friend was still a little too thin and ragged for her liking, but she was glad to see him nonetheless. It had been much too long._

_Dr. Bumby's voice echoed down from the sky, as it was wont to do. "Now, Alice – where are you?"_

"_I'm sailing," Alice replied, taking a delicate sip of tea. "With a friend." A strange little butterfly with a nut for a body buzzed her nose, making her giggle. Now _this_ was the Wonderland she remembered from her childhood."It's different, somehow," she continued, taking another look around. Nothing but serenity as far as the eye could see. Maybe the land really _had_ managed to recover in full from the Red Queen's taint – and without any interference needed from her. "Things have changed."_

"_Change is good," Dr. Bumby said, sounding as pleased as Alice felt. "It's the first link in the chain of forgetting."_

_Alice would have agreed – if Rabbit had not chosen that moment to start twitching. She stared as his head jerked up and down, one eye quivering in its socket as his teeth rattled in his jaw. An unpleasant coldness began creeping into her guts. Oh no – was this where it all went wrong again? But she hadn't even gotten the chance to finish her tea! "What's happening?" she asked her friend, not sure if she wanted an answer or not. "Are – are you mad?"_

"_I'm not mad," Bumby protested, but Alice didn't pay any heed. Her attention was fixed on the blood now dripping from Rabbit's neck, a steady flow of crimson that contrasted sharply with his white fur. "Rabbit!" she cried. "What's hurt you? Is something wrong?" He'd been crushed by the Hatter on her last visit here – was that the reason for this sudden horror? _Think him better think him better –

_Rabbit's twitchy eye abruptly popped, leaving a bare socket to stare back at her. "Something wrong?" he repeated, his voice echoing and strange. "Raaaatherrrr!"_

_And then, with no warning, his head _exploded_ into a shower of blood and black slime. Alice threw up her hands, trying in vain to protect her face from the fountain of gore. Behind them, she could see the landscape rotting around her – the grass withering from healthy green to kindling grey, the trees turning from earthy brown to burnt black, the sky fading from cheery blue to the bright yellow-orange of a freshly-lit _fire – _"Oh no," she moaned, the coldness spreading up through her limbs."Not that!"_

"_Don't struggle, Alice – let the new Wonderland emerge," Bumby counseled, but he couldn't _see_ this, couldn't see the water turning to pitch-black _ooze_, the bone-white china faces and hands lurching up from the bottom in huge boat-swallowing waves, the tiny porcelain fingers reaching out to drag her and what was left of her still-twitching friend into the depths (she'd never been afraid of dolls before, but she definitely was now). . .and still that terrible gunk spurting from Rabbit's neck, coating her exposed flesh and burning burning _burning_ – "Pollution – corruption – it's – it's killing me! Wonderland is destroyed! My mind is in ruins!" she shrieked, desperate for relief, for rescue, for _something_ –_

"_Forget it, Alice. Block that dream!" Bumby commanded, and she would have been more grateful if he'd said that _before_ those cold, slippery fingers started _ripping off her face_. "Wake at the sound."_

_But it was too late, far too late as Rabbit might have said if he'd still been blessed with a head. They'd shredded every last bit of her skin, leaving her brain and muscles and guts exposed as they dragged her down, down, down. . . . She let out a last terrified scream as her head sank beneath the waves. . . ._

And then, blessedly, she heard the snap, and the darkness changed to merely that behind her eyelids. Alice took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reacquainting herself with the feel of the fainting couch beneath her. Part of her wanted to leap from her spot and run away as fast as she could, away from any lingering ooze, but she forced herself to stay put, lest she make a spectacle of herself attempting to flee from her own brain. Besides, she didn't feel in any condition to move yet anyway. Maybe in a few years she'd be ready to get up.

"There, Alice. Better now, aren't we?"

Alice wondered what exactly Dr. Bumby's definition of "better" was. "My head's exploded and there's a steam hammer in my chest," she groused, sitting up and pressing a hand against her forehead. God, did every session on this couch have to end with her feeling miserable?

Dr. Bumby had the sense to pretend to be embarrassed, at least. "Yes, well, the cost of forgetting is high."

Always with his stupid platitudes. Alice was in no mood for trite, useless words – not after what she'd just been through. "My memories make me vomit," she snapped, trying hard to repress images of Rabbit being crushed, Cheshire's neck spurting blood, the Queen of Hearts mocking and degrading her with her own face, her family house going up in flames and her not being able to do a thing about it. . . . All still depressingly, vividly clear after all these months. The cost of forgetting might be high, but the cost of remembering seemed higher still. "What can I–"

"Remember other things," Dr. Bumby interrupted, walking over to the window behind her and peering outside.

As if it were that easy! "I want to forget!" Alice almost yelled. She _hated_ feeling like this – vulnerable, fragile – _mad_. She was out of that asylum – she should be free of the guilt, the pain, the deep-down ache in her heart! Besides, what other things could she remember that weren't equally as horrible? "Who would choose to be alone, imprisoned by their broken memories?"

"I'll set you free, Alice," Dr. Bumby assured her, finally deigning to notice her suffering. "Memory is a curse more often than a blessing."

Alice barely resisted rolling her eyes. "So you've said. Many times. And–"

"_And_ I will say again," Dr. Bumby snapped, sitting down across from her and fixing her with a stern look, "the past _must_ be paid for. You won't get results if you won't do the work, Alice!" He collected himself and continued in a milder tone. "Now, before our next session, collect those pills from our High Street chemist."

Ugh, pills. Alice hated pills. But she recognized a dismissal when she heard it. "Very well, doctor."

She rose from the couch and headed for the door, eager to leave this office and its misery behind. To her mild surprise, the office seemed just as eager to have her leave – the moment her fingers touched the knob, the door popped open. Charlie proved to be the culprit behind this mysterious event. "It's my turn to forget, Alice!" he told her as he waltzed past, voice much too cheerful for someone about to undergo therapy with Dr. Bumby.

Alice felt a pang as the little boy made himself comfortable on the couch. Poor Charlie – he was the orphan she got along with best, possibly because his history was almost as tragic as hers. A mother who'd beat him, and a father who'd gotten himself hung trying to defend his son. She couldn't blame him for wanting to forget. _Just hope he has an easier time of it than me,_ she thought, closing the door behind her as Bumby pulled out the key on the end of his watch chain – his usual hypnotizing instrument – to start the session. "That's right, Charlie," she heard him say through the wood, fading as she walked away, "just watch it go back and forth. . . ."

The main hall of the Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth was filled with toys, games, and children, as usual. A group lingering by the bend looked up as she approached. "What's wrong now?" one whiny boy demanded with a suspicious frown.

"Can't find the door," Alice replied absently, eying the stairs at the far end of the hall. Hmmm. She knew her orders. She ought to just go to the chemist's and get it over with. That's what any nonmadwoman would do. So instead she turned and walked into the boys' room. If Dr. Bumby asked, she was checking up on the children. That was her job, wasn't it? To check up on the children?

There were two boys inside the bedroom– perpetual resident Reggie, perched on his bunk bed, and relative newcomer Dennis sitting in the corner. "The loo smells awful!" Reggie complained the instant she stepped through the open door.

"Worse than your room?" Alice asked, wrinkling her nose at the stench of wee that never quite left. What was it with these little ones and wetting the bed? "I don't know what you expect _me_ to do about it even if it does. I'm no plumber." She turned her attention to the other boy. "How are you, Dennis?"

"Ollie pinched me smalls," Dennis replied, scowling.

Oh hell, Ollie was still doing that? Well, Alice wasn't going to be the one who asked him what he wanted with his friends' underwear. "Wear bloomers," she told Dennis with a little smirk. He merely grumbled in response.

Despite these complaints, the boys seemed to be all right, so Alice continued on to the girls' room. There was only one child in there – young Elsie, doodling some rather cruel-looking stick figures in a patch of sunlight. "Doctor do you right?" she asked as Alice entered, not even bothering to look up. "Still sick in the head? Or did he actually cure you this time?"

"I'm past a cure," Alice half-joked, grimacing as she noticed that the goldfish the girls had talked Dr. Bumby into getting was floating upside-down in its bowl. Great – she'd have to dispose of that later. "Terminal condition."

Elsie just hummed a quiet agreement and kept drawing. Alice left her to it and jogged back out into the hall. That was probably all the dillydallying she could get away with – time to complete her chores before anyone made a fuss. Abigail, standing by the hopscotch board chalked on the floor, gave her a wicked smile as she passed. "Wasting doctor's time?" the little girl taunted.

"I deserve my bitter tears," Alice replied with a glare. "Want some?"

Abigail wisely fell silent. _Brats, the lot of them,_ Alice thought as she made her reluctant way to the first floor. _Dr. Bumby's treatments seem to make them forget their manners along with everything else. Really, Doctor, you need to learn when to _stop_ waving that key in front of their eyes. Keep on like you're doing and eventually there will be nothing left in their heads._

She glanced at the luggage tucked away behind the stairs – these orphans had more things than she did – then allowed herself a moment to examine the copy of the "Illustrated News" lying on the nearby endtable. Fire at Match Factory, read the top headline. Six Girls Missing. Alice shook her head as she looked at the picture of the burnt-out remains. _Is there anything more predictable? The world's gone quite mad._

Rounding the corner, she encountered two more children, boy and girl, deep in conversation. "Ten years in the looney bin, I heard," one said, not noticing the topic of their discussion had appeared on the scene.

"No ma, no relations – she's an orphan," her companion nodded.

"How exactly does that make me different from either of you?" Alice asked, arching an eyebrow at the two.

"Orphans are supposed to be little!" the girl said, staring up at her. "You're too old to not have a ma!"

"If only," Alice murmured, looking away. "Don't you two have better things to do than stand here and gossip?" The pair shook their heads. "Shouldn't have asked. All right, just keep out of trouble." She continued on to her room, leaving them to giggle and continue to trade rumors behind her.

She retrieved what little money she had from its hiding place beneath her mattress, then lingered for a bit, looking around. Uncomfortable bed, slowly-rotting dresser, rickety shelves, lopsided cupboard, peeling wallpaper, leaky umbrella. . . . This was what passed for home these days. _Enough to make one wonder why I _bothered_ leaving Rutledge,_ she thought, biting her lip.

A knock behind her caught her attention. Alice turned around – and smiled, genuinely, for the first time that day. "Hello, Victor."

"Hello," Victor Van Dort – her neighbor, best friend, and the only good company for miles – replied, stepping over the threshold. "What had you so deep in thought, if I may ask?"

Alice spread her arms to encompass her living space. "Mr. Payne had no idea how humble a home could be," she told him, thinking of a man she'd known in her youth who'd preached often about the joys of the "simple life." Somehow, she didn't think he'd been talking about anything this simple. "If not for my drawings and the photograph, this could pass for my room at the asylum."

Victor grimaced. "Really?"

"Well, all right, you'd have to take away the cupboard and the dresser, and cover the walls with padded white fabric," Alice allowed, smirking. "But it's close enough to." The smirk faded as she sighed, rubbing one arm. "It's rather pathetic, though. It's been almost a year, and yet – I still feel out of place."

Victor nodded sympathetically. "I know how you feel. My room here has never felt like home either." He looked at the various drawings pinned up around her bed and smiled. "Still, it's not all bad. You've amassed a lovely art collection."

"I have, haven't I?" Alice agreed, standing beside him. "Though, really, what I've amassed is a rather childish art collection–" She waved a hand to indicate all her various scribblings "– and a few rare beautiful pieces." Grinning at him, she tapped a certain ink drawing of herself in battle with an Army Ant. "Courtesy of a most talented artist."

Victor blushed and fiddled with his tie. "Well, you give me quite a lot of inspiration," he told her. "And for what it's worth, I like your drawings. The one you made me for my birthday was beautiful."

"Yes – the only time I've been able to draw well in this godforsaken place. Be honored." Alice glanced back at the door. "Unfortunately, I can't linger here and discuss art with you all day. Dr. Bumby wants me to go collect more pills from the chemist."

"Oh, I see." Victor frowned. "This has to be the third new medication he's tried you on. Are they helping at all?"

"I don't know – mostly they just taste bad," Alice said, making a face. "They certainly don't stop me from seeing things." She shrugged. "Then again, it's only been a fortnight. And some things _have_ gotten fuzzier, I think. Although nothing I _want_ to get fuzzy." Her gaze fell to her feet. "I can still hear their screams at night."

Victor put his arm around her. "I'm sorry. I wish I could do something to help you."

Alice rested her head against his shoulder. "Really, Victor – you do enough by just being here." Then she added with a laugh, "Even though I know quite well you'd like to be anywhere _other_ than here."

"Right now I would," Victor admitted with a soft groan. "Dr. Bumby told me after lunch I would have a session with him around four."

Alice patted his hand. "And I'm sure you're very eager to go up there and be told to forget the nicest afterlife I've ever heard of."

"Oh yes, I can't wait," Victor replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. He let out a deep sigh. "I wish he'd just leave me alone. It's been – goodness, almost five months! Have I really been here that long?"

"You must, unless I've been hallucinating you," Alice informed him. "Which is always a possibility, granted." She took his hand and gave it a little squeeze. "I'm sorry you're stuck here, but we both know Bumby's a stubborn bastard. If he's kept you around for nearly half a year, he's not going to give up on you anytime soon. I bet he thinks you'll break any day now."

Victor shook his head. "Maybe. Either that or he's getting desperate. He's gotten even more aggressive in his methods over the past two weeks." He looked at her, concern written all over his face. "Speaking of which, you've just had your session, haven't you? How did it go?"

Alice winced. "Horrible. Reliving the Queen's tyranny, watching my family burn – and just when I thought I'd gone somewhere safe, I'm attacked by black sludge and porcelain dolls."

"Dolls?" Victor blinked a few times. "Well, the lazy eye on Elsie's favorite is a little disconcerting, I suppose. . . ."

This was why she liked Victor – he always knew how to make her smile. "I agree. Fortunately for me, that one is made out of cheap bakelite. I doubt it could try to rip my face off without breaking its fingers."

Victor stared. "Rip your – your imagination just does _not_ like you, does it Alice?"

"It hasn't liked me for years," Alice said, remembering dropping down a hole full of shifting colors and landing in the Village of the Doomed. God, that felt like only yesterday. . . . "And the feeling is mutual, as you well know. Maybe one day we'll come to a truce, but not today." She shook her head and pulled away from Victor. "Anyway, I should go get those pills. Don't want the dearest doctor to have another grumpy moment and try to dock my pay again."

"Certainly not," Victor agreed. "I'll see you later, Alice. Have a good trip."

"Good luck with your session," Alice replied. "Don't let him bully you too much."

"I haven't yet," Victor said, giving her a rather cheeky grin.

Alice returned it. "Damn straight. So don't start now." Giving him a final wave, she headed for the front foyer.

There was another group of orphans in there, playing with the dollhouse. They glanced up as she passed and started murmuring to each other. "Doctor's pet!"

"Too good for the asylum!"

"Mad as a hatter, without the charm."

"Killed her family!"

"Who'd want her?"

"Only the necrophiliac."

"One day he's going to have enough of that word and join me in stuffing you all in a closet," Alice informed them archly. They ignored her, going back to their play. Alice shook her head and headed for the front door. _Wasn't even worth bothering them about, really. After so much time hearing variations on those same themes, Victor and I should be immune to such comments. Just makes me sick to hear them going on about that still. . . ._

The world outside proved to be surprisingly nice, with sunny skies and clear air. It gave Alice's spirits a much-needed lift. "Another day – a different dream, perhaps?" she wondered as she jogged down the front steps. It seemed unlikely, but you never knew. After all, she'd managed to keep from hallucinating so far. And Victor would be waiting for her once she got back from this latest chore – perhaps he'd be open to a game of cards, or hearing a story about Wonderland – the good variation of it. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Maybe, despite that rotten session, today could still be a good day.

She had no idea how wrong she was.


	2. A Most Frustrating Session

Chapter 2

September 7th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

4:18 P.M.

_There was so much _color_._

_That was what amazed Victor the most. It was the complete inversion of what one expected. Life implied color, and death dreariness. After all, one didn't go to a funeral in anything other than black, and most people he knew considered the cloudiest, greyest days as the most appropriate mourning weather. And yet, for practically all his life, the most prominent colors he'd seen Upstairs were off-whites, faded greys, and washed-out blacks, with the occasional bit of dull brown or pale blue for variety. While Downstairs. . . ._

_Victor walked around the pub, taking in the scenery with an appreciative eye. The brick foundation popped against the eggshell-colored walls, redder than any rose. The dusty bottles stacked behind the bar glowed with vibrant pinks, blues and yellows. Grass-green and bruise-purple light tinted walls and furniture curious shades as they battled for supremacy. Even the battered, worm-eaten brown wood of the bar and the deep black shadows lurking in the corners of the room seemed more alive than their counterparts Above. It was as if all the color in the Living world had been leeched away through the soil, trickling down until it landed in rainbow splatters on the Land of the Dead. _You could have left some for us,_ Victor thought, though with no real rancor. After all, he was certain the Dead appreciated the color a lot more than the Living ever would._

"_Where are you?" _

_Dr. Bumby's voice echoed around the room, filling every nook and cranny. Victor frowned. He hated that – hated the way the words seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It made him feel like he was a pet in a cage, or a figure in a dollhouse – small and insignificant, __totally __controlled by outside forces. He'd gotten quite enough of _that_ from his mother and Pastor Galswells back home._

_Still, it wouldn't do to ignore the doctor. "The Ball & Socket," he replied, brushing his fingers along the pink cushioning on top of the coffin piano. Some tiny part of him recognized that it was just the memory of a touch, that none of this was real, that it would all fade into oblivion when Dr. Bumby snapped his fingers. But Victor ignored that part. The majority of his mind bought into the illusion. And he was enjoying visiting the pub again, reliving cherished memories and getting a break from the London gloom._

"_Is anyone else there?"_

_Victor looked around. The main room was empty of people, but he could see light spilling out of the kitchen doorway. He peered over the top of the undersized doors. Inside the little room stood three people he knew well – Mrs. Plum, the main cook; Bonejangles, skeletal singer extraordinaire; and Emily, his sweet corpse bride. The three of them were talking and laughing as Mrs. Plum stirred the contents of a huge black cauldron. Not even the smell of rotting flesh emanating from the pot could stop a fond smile from spreading across Victor's face. "Some of my friends are in the kitchen. Bonejangles, Mrs. Plum, and Emily. I think they're about to have lunch."_

"_No, they're not."_

_Victor frowned, puzzled. What was Dr. Bumby talking about? "Yes, they are. I can see them."_

"_They're not there. The Ball & Socket is not there. None of what you claim to see exists, Victor. You made it all up during an unfortunate psychotic episode."_

_Oh. This again. The puzzlement faded, but the frown remained. "I did not," Victor said, folding his arms. "They're real. All of this is real."_

"_It is not real. It is a delusion that was brought on by your fear of getting married. Don't you remember? You were practicing your vows in the woods. You were alone, rejected by your peers. You were nervous, worried, afraid. At the height of your distress, you saw a root in the shape of a gnarled hand sticking out from the ground. And because it was dark, because you were already not thinking clearly, you imagined it was one."_

"_I didn't need to imagine anything, sir. It _was_ a hand," Victor replied firmly, a flicker of irritation coloring his words. As usual, Dr. Bumby was bound and determined to convince him that the very place he'd _specifically asked Victor to go to_ didn't actually exist. That it was all a mere hallucination, despite how real everything felt. Why did he want Victor in the Ball & Socket if he was just going to deny that there _was_ a Ball & Socket? Was it really so important to the psychiatrist that the pub dissolve away in the wind before Victor's eyes?_

_The worst part, however, was that sometimes – Victor was tempted to let it. Every so often, he would start to wonder if it was really worth fighting Dr. Bumby's therapy. It didn't happen during every session, and it never lasted long. But sometimes, in the middle of particularly intense appointments – the kind that left him with a throbbing headache afterward – his resolve to remember would weaken. He knew that it would be easier to just go along with it, let his memories be erased so he could leave this wretched place at last. And the way Dr. Bumby talked – so confident, so _sure_ of himself, in a way Victor had never quite been even after nearly taking a sword to the vitals – it was frighteningly simple to agree with him that the Land Below was some sort of fantastic dream he'd had. Something that needed to be discarded so Victor could get on with the business of living._

_But Bumby could never get Victor to wonder for more than a moment. There were things the young man knew deep in his gut – things he could rely on. And one of them was that the Land of the Dead and Emily were real. And that to forget them would be a betrayal of some of the nicest people (and the most unfortunate bride) he'd ever met. He'd stuck it out this long – he could stick it out to the end. "And the Land of the Dead is not a delusion," he continued. "I'm there right now. I can see Mrs. Plum cooking something over the fire. Shall I ask her what it is?"_

"_No," Dr. Bumby replied, and now he sounded a bit peeved. "You are trapped in an unproductive hallucination. There is no Mrs. Plum cooking something over a fire. There is no Land of the Dead, Victor. Block it from your mind – forget it! Return to the living world. Return to real people."_

"_These people are real too," Victor protested, glaring up at the ceiling. "They may be dead, but they're as real as you or me. I could walk straight into that kitchen and hug any one of them."_

"_Those 'people' are nothing more than imaginary friends conjured up by your fevered imagination," Dr. Bumby shot back. "They do not exist. They cannot exist. Dead people do not get up and walk!"_

_Victor blinked. While he was used to Dr. Bumby getting angry with him during sessions, the doctor's tone of voice was different this time. He sounded like – like Alice had when she'd first learned about the Land of the Dead. Victor felt a sudden wave of sympathy for the psychiatrist. Had he lost someone he loved long ago too? Did he feel like Alice once had – that Victor's stories reopened old wounds that had never quite healed? "Doctor, are you all right?"_

_There was a moment of silence. "You did not see any form of afterlife," Dr. Bumby finally said, calm and composed once more. "You did not speak with any of the dead. You did not do the impossible, Victor Van Dort. When you saw that 'hand' in the woods, you suffered an unfortunate psychotic episode that led to you hallucinating walking corpses while your pain-filled mind tried to work through its issues regarding commitment. And, judging by your descriptions of this 'corpse bride,' some latent necrophilia."_

That_ got Victor well and truly angry. "I do _not_ have necrophilia! I would never v-violate one of the dead like that!" he yelled, balling his fists. "What happened is that I woke up a murdered bride by inadvertently proposing to her!"_

"_What happened is that you went mad from stress!" Dr. Bumby snapped. "No one else admits they saw the living dead, now do they?"_

"_I caught her murderer, didn't I?" Victor returned, playing his one and only trump card. "No one claims Lord Barkis didn't exist!"_

"_An auspicious coincidence, Master Van Dort! They happen from time to time. You probably based your image of your 'bride' on childhood stories of the missing girl. It was sheer dumb luck that her murderer returned to your town when he did. And while we're all grateful that you managed to frighten a ruthless killer into accidentally killing himself, it is time to let the past go! Forget this insanity, Victor! Emily was not real – at least, not when you claim to have met her! Your insistence on holding onto this ridiculous fantasy is keeping you from achieving your true destiny!"_

_Victor, on the verge of replying, stopped and blinked a few times. Huh? What was the doctor going on about now? "True destiny?" he repeated, confused._

"_Everyone has a purpose, Victor. Yours is _not_ to spend the rest of your life wallowing in fake memories of an afterlife no rational person would conceive of! Nor is it to believe in undead brides that masquerade as tree roots!" For a moment, the doctor's voice softened, becoming sweet as honey. "All she's doing is causing you pain, Victor. Ruining your reputation and making it impossible to interact with normal people. Wouldn't it be nicer to reject her and reclaim your life?"_

_Victor shook his head."No. I loved that poor girl, Dr. Bumby. I nearly died for her. I'm not going to erase her from my mind."_

"_You must!" Dr. Bumby insisted, abandoning soft words. "What you want does not matter anymore! You _will_ forget! And you _will_ return to the living world!"_

_Victor scowled at the ceiling. "Well, if you insist, I can at least do the latter."_

"_Oh?"_

"_Yes. Just give me some time to get to Elder Gutknecht's tower so he can cast the Ukrainian Haunting Spell." The little part of him that knew this was all a mixture of memories and imagination protested that that was a mean thing to say, but Victor couldn't bring himself to care. Dr. Bumby was getting on his nerves. Every session was the same bloody thing, and he was _tired_ of it. He was allowed to wind the doctor up every once in a while._

_There was a moment of silence, then a distinctly disgusted sigh. "That won't be necessary," Dr. Bumby replied. "You will wake – now." There was the sound of fingers snapping –_

And then Victor opened his eyes in Dr. Bumby's office, thrown back into the world of dullness and brown. He stared at the ceiling for a bit, letting himself readjust to reality. In the Land of the Living; lying on a couch in the middle of Whitechapel; and receiving therapy that he very much did not need. _How depressing. I'm almost tempted to ask Dr. Bumby to rehypnotize me just so I can escape back to the Ball & Socket._

"It is frankly disturbing how little you care for your own well-being, Victor."

Victor sighed as he sat up. And now this old song-and-dance again. He'd thought things could get samey back in Burtonsville, but that was nothing compared to his sessions with Dr. Angus Bumby. "I think I'm a better person for remembering Emily and the Land of the Dead – sir," he said, trying to be polite despite his grumpiness.

"You're a better person for clinging to delusions and hallucinations?" Dr. Bumby asked sarcastically, leaning back in his chair.

"I used to be terrified of death, Dr. Bumby. Now I hardly fear it at all. And I believe I respect life more too." How could he not, after seeing the pain someone had gone through upon having theirs ripped away from them? Even with the lack of color and excitement in the Land of the Living, Victor knew Emily would have given anything to stay in it. To become a wife and mother, to experience sunshine and happy days with a man she loved. That was the whole reason she'd made her vow after all, wasn't it? For all the wonders of the Land of the Dead, there were some things that you could only properly experience as a breather. And Victor hoped one day to take advantage of them. If only for Emily's sake.

"Yes, of course you do. That perfectly explains your suicidal leanings," Dr. Bumby shot back, glaring at Victor over steepled fingers.

"I've only attempted that o-once!" Victor protested. _Well – that you know of,_ he added in his head, feeling a faint pang of guilt. But there was no way in this world or the next that he was going to tell Dr. Bumby about the _first_ incident. He couldn't afford to give the psychiatrist any more firepower in his campaign against his mind. "And only because I thought I could help someone else by doing so! I have no urge to try again now!"

"Do you? Do you really? You often speak of how much nicer the Land of the Dead is." Dr. Bumby's expression softened into something almost paternal. "I worry that one day I'm going to find you dead in your room, having slit your wrists or hung yourself. I don't want to have to tell your parents that I failed you completely." He stood up, placing a hand on Victor's shoulder. "Let me help you, Victor. Let me clear your mind of those painful and unproductive thoughts. There's a whole world out there you could be experiencing. Full of interesting, _living_ people. Even living women." He leaned down, smiling. "You're a rather handsome boy, you know."

Victor repressed a shiver. Dr. Bumby may have been lauded for his psychiatric work, but Victor had discovered the man's social skills were somewhat lacking (and that was saying something, coming from _him_). The good doctor had a strange knack for making compliments sound creepy. Not to mention, whenever Dr. Bumby looked at him like this, Victor had the oddest feeling he was being sized up for something. What, he didn't know, but it was enough to unnerve him. He reached for his tie, then stopped as he recalled how much that irritated the doctor. "Um, t-thank you," he said, twisting his hands together instead. "B-but I have been experiencing the world, sir. I don't spend all my time lost in memories of what happened those two days, I assure you." _And as for living women. . .I've found one, but I'm sure she'd never return my feelings. And judging by your reaction the last time we got close, you wouldn't approve of the match either._

Dr. Bumby straightened up with a frown. "It is impossible to get through to you, Master Van Dort," he grumbled. "Five months with no change – you should have been cured in half that time. I'm tempted to try more drastic measures. . .but I'll have to get your parents' approval for that," he added with a deep, put-on sigh. "Consider this your last chance to cooperate. I am being paid to cure you, and cure you I will." He leaned forward again, locking his eyes with Victor's. "Whether you like it or not."

Victor had no response to that. So instead he stared out the window behind him, fiddling with his fingers. He hated putting Dr. Bumby in these moods – if only because the doctor was invariably short with him the rest of the day – but the alternative was doing something that felt wrong down to his very core. No matter what anyone might say, he couldn't bring himself to declare Emily nonexistent. The mere thought of doing so made him feel like – well, like Barkis Bittern. And the day he ended up anything like _that_ horrible man was the day he'd remove himself from all human society.

Dr. Bumby turned away from him, shaking his head. "It's sad, really, how some people refuse to accept help," he mumbled. "The world would be a much better place if we all followed our assigned purposes without question."

Victor wasn't sure he agreed, but didn't dare say so. "Perhaps I just haven't found mine yet?" he suggested instead.

"Or you won't listen to those who already know," Dr. Bumby returned coldly. He sat down at his desk and picked up some papers. "But I don't have time to argue it with you. You're free to go."

Victor was only too happy to comply. He practically ran out the door, breathing a sigh of relief. Ugh, that office felt more like a prison with every session, especially with the way Dr. Bumby hovered over him. But he'd earned his freedom for another week. And hopefully his parents would take their time in granting permission for Dr. Bumby to try more "drastic" treatments. He wanted to believe that they wouldn't grant their permission at all, but knowing his mother. . .he shook his head. _One day you'll find a way out of here. One day._

There were a few children in the hallway, doodling on the walls and floor. Victor approached Reggie, the nearest. "Have you seen Alice?" he asked, crouching down. Talking with her was sure to lift his spirits. Maybe he could get his sketchbook and do another drawing of Wonderland. Adding to her art wall was better than sitting around feeling sorry for himself.

Reggie shook his head. "She ain't come back from her errand yet."

Victor frowned. "She hasn't?" That was odd. Alice preferred to get whatever Bumby ordered her to do over as quickly as possible, so she had more time to herself. Unless she got distracted, of course. _Which is happening more and more often these days,_ Victor admitted to himself, biting his lip.

It worried him, to tell the truth. During most of his stay here at the Home, Alice's hallucinations had seemed to be relatively infrequent and harmless, despite her warnings. Yes, sometimes she'd have a conversation with something that wasn't there, but in general she'd been as lucid as anyone else he'd known. However, over the past fortnight, her mental state had deteriorated with alarming rapidness. She was seeing things multiple times a day, snapping at blank walls and shrinking away from random people on the street. Once he'd even come into her room to find her beating her umbrella against her wardrobe – when he'd gotten her calmed down, she'd confessed to imagining she was hitting a Phantasmagoria with her flamingo croquet mallet ("And the horrid thing just would not die!"). He was scared that, one day, she'd have an episode so bad that she'd hurt herself – or worse, someone else. And he knew that she feared the same. For all her sharp words and cold demeanor, Alice had a pretty soft heart. She was always quick to apologize for her behavior after a moment of insanity, and more than once she'd anxiously examined him and anyone else nearby for signs of madness-inflicted injury, not relaxing until he'd assured her multiple times all was well. And when she talked about the possibility of going back to that wretched Rutledge Asylum – well, the terror in her eyes was enough to sway even the most hardened of souls.

Except for Dr. Bumby. The psychiatrist didn't seem to give even half a damn about the fact that Alice was suffering so much as of late. Oh yes, he _claimed_ that eventually his therapy would eliminate her hallucinations, but it didn't seem right that he just ignored them in the here and now. In fact, Victor would swear that this severe dip in Alice's sanity had started around the same time as Bumby had declared he would be trying more "radical" treatments to help her forget. By Alice's own admission, the pills and extra sessions _were_ helping a little, but in Victor's opinion, the side effects were worse than the "disease." _There must be a less brutal way for Dr. Bumby to fix Alice's memory woes,_ he thought, shaking his head._ The way things are going, you'd think the doctor had it out for her!_

"Nope," Reggie said, dragging Victor's mind back to the present. "Ain't seen her since she left. Maybe she saw a rabbit and went running off after it." He snickered. "She's probably wading through the sewer right now, thinking she's in Wonderland."

"That's not funny," Victor said, frowning severely. "If she really was hurt, you'd be sorry."

Reggie just shrugged and continued drawing handprints on the wall. Victor sighed and headed downstairs. All right, no Alice. Perhaps he could find a book to while away the hours with until she returned. He couldn't have read all of them yet. . . .

However, Reggie's words wouldn't leave him be. Despite himself, he began picturing Alice wandering the streets of the East End, battling figments of her imagination, utterly oblivious to the world around her. . .and then falling into a ditch and breaking her legs, or running in front of a carriage going too fast to stop, or –

He shut his eyes and shook his head. "She's fine," he told himself firmly. "She's – she's just taking a nice, long walk before she has to come back to this loathsome place. She is perfectly all right and I'll see her when she gets back."

It didn't help. That niggle of worry kept tugging at his heart. The days were ending earlier now – what if night fell with her still out there? What if she got lost and couldn't find her way back? What if she injured herself in some back alley where she couldn't get help? Or, worse yet, what if someone like Jack Splatter came upon her and decided that, as long as she didn't know what was happening in the real world –

A wave of nausea nearly doubled him over. Victor held his stomach and his breath, waiting for the sick feeling to pass. No – he couldn't bear to think of that happening to her. He had to try looking for her, if only for the sake of his nerves. He'd probably find he was worrying over nothing, but – that was better than just sitting around with his mind running off in a thousand different, terrible directions, wasn't it? And besides, maybe once he found her, they could pop into a store, or look for a park, or – or do _anything_ together, really. Anything that might make this day better. His mind made up, Victor strode through the foyer and out the front doors, ready to tackle anything in his way.

He hoped, anyway.


	3. Return Of The Savior

Chapter 3

September 7th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

4:37 P.M.

It was horrible and disgusting and somehow breathtaking up here.

Alice leaned on the railing of the little wooden bridge between the rooftops, staring out at the grimy pinks and smoky greys of the London skyline. Thick black streaks drifted up from every smokestack, dividing the sky into strips and pumping out yet more toxins into the air. You could taste the smog up here, its smoky scent worming its way into your clothes and leaving a thin film of grime on every surface. It was enough to make even the most dedicated proponent of the Industrial Revolution long for the days before coal and steam.

And yet, it was impossible to deny that the various fumes really did bring out the colors in the late-afternoon sky. Radiant reds, blazing oranges, brilliant greens. . . . Progress not only brought jobs and goods to London, it also brought some delightful sunsets. _About the only pleasant thing you can say for this ugly city,_ Alice thought, drumming her fingers against the battered timber. Her gaze shifted to the left, to where Nurse Witless was tossing some moldy old breadcrumbs to her pigeons. _And speaking of ugly things. . ._ .

She couldn't say why she'd followed the old bint up here. Maybe it had been the impossible-to-squash hope that Witless might let slip, deliberately or accidentally, whose burrow her beloved toy rabbit was currently hiding in. Maybe it had been her need to be around someone whom she _knew_ was real, as opposed to legions of Jabberwock-headed men with grasping hands and fiery eyes. Maybe it was simply because she hadn't really felt like going to the chemist to fetch pills that barely did a lick of good. Whatever the reason, it was now lost, crushed under the heavy weight of frustration. Why did Witless constantly string her on like this – promising her information and then never delivering? Was the few pounds she got from Alice for keeping her mouth shut about what Alice had said upon her admission to Rutledge (and oh, why had her younger self not learned to be silent earlier?) really worth it? Or did she have a deeper, more sinister purpose in mind?

_No, this is Witless,_ Alice reminded herself, finally completing her journey across the bridge to Witless's roof. _She can't see anything beyond her next bottle of Blue Ruin. If she has a sinister plan, it's a surprise even to her._ She frowned at the old woman's hunched back. _On the other hand, I wouldn't put it past her to mean me ill. She was released from her position about the same time I was released from my cell. I wonder. . . ._ "Nurse Witless, do you mean to harm me?" she asked, folding her arms. "To send me back to the asylum?" Blunt, yes, but Witless wouldn't take offense. In fact, with any luck, the witch would be equally blunt and honest right back, which would give Alice a chance of figuring out how to deal with her. She was _not_ going back to Rutledge – and certainly not to give this awful crone back a job she hadn't done particularly well in the first place. The awful thought of _Victor could probably pay her enough to leave me alone forever_ slipped into Alice's brain, and was immediately evicted. Victor got into enough trouble on his own in this horrible city. She wasn't inviting more onto his head. Witless was her problem to solve, and hers alone.

"I won't say no," Witless replied vaguely, scattering the last of her crumbs across the aged, pitted concrete of her roof. The pigeons darted around her, snatching up as many as they could stuff into their gullets and stealing whatever they could from their fellows. Thieves and opportunists – no wonder Witless liked them. "I've a thirst you could photograph."

Alice was about to say something along the lines of, "Then why don't you bother someone with a camera for your pay?" when out of nowhere the back of Witless's dress bulged, two curious lumps pushing at the ratty fabric. "Need a **drink**," the former nurse went on, but her voice was strange and distorted, getting more masculine and terribly familiar with every growled word. . .Alice drew back in horror as the lumps tore through, revealing a pair of tiny dragon-like wings as the woman's skin turned a sickly lizard green. . . . "**More than my whistle needs wetting!**"

And then she turned, but it wasn't Witless anymore. Instead, Alice found herself staring at the jaws that bite and the claws that catch and the eyes of flame, blazing with a hatred hotter and stronger than the furnace that had powered him the last time they had met. _No,_ she thought in terror as the Jabberwock roared and advanced upon her. _No, please, not again, not again. . . ._

As she backed away, holding up her hands in useless defense, a flash of blue light caught her eye. Looking down, she found herself surrounded by a web of cracks, spreading with every step she took and emitting an eerie azure glow. She had only a moment to wonder what fresh hell this was. Then, with a mighty crash, the roof gave way, and she was falling down into blackness, down into unconsciousness. . .

"_Go – to Wonderland!"_

. . .down a hole of muted rainbow fog.

She tumbled head over heels for a moment, trying to get her bearings. Chairs, clocks, cogs, cards, and other fiddly little bits of household civilization floated past her as she straightened herself out, suspended in midair as if on invisible strings. She almost grinned when she saw them – well, that at least was a good sign. The last time she'd fallen down the rabbit hole, the tunnel had been distressingly empty – her first clue something was wrong with her beloved mental world. This was much more like it. She reached out her hand as she fell, wondering if she could snag a book from the sky like the empty jar of marmalade she'd snatched on her very first trip –

But then fog and objects faded away, replaced by walls made up of rusted and corroded pipes, studded here and there with hideous doll faces which stared at her with eyeless malice. She stared back at the china masks, repressing a shudder as she remembered chill slippery fingers shredding her cheeks and digging into her brain. All right, perhaps things weren't as settled as she'd hoped. But what _were_ these horrid things doing on her fall to Wonderland? She wasn't about to find herself plunging into a river of sludge, welcomed into death by Rabbit's headless corpse, was she?

Fortunately, that did not seem to be the case. A circle of blue sky opened up beneath her, signaling the end of her journey. For a moment, Alice was simply glad to see the last of this ugly, rotted hole. Then the memory of how she'd _last_ greeted this realm of nonsense and wonder returned to her, making her wince. _Oh no,_ she thought, shaking her head. _I am _not_ making my grand entrance by falling on my arse in a plot of mushrooms again! If we're going to do this, we're going to do it _properly_!_ Flipping herself over so that she was falling feet-first – as embarrassing as landing on her arse would be, there was no sense in giving herself a broken neck either – she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, focusing all her thoughts on how she _should_ look upon arrival.

A little ball of heat formed in the center of her guts, warming her body like a miniature star. Seconds later, it went supernova, throwing her head back and sending a shockwave through the sky. A brilliant corona of white light engulfed her, and then –

Her mussed and ragged hair grew long and silky.

Her sun-starved skin took on a healthy pink glow.

Her thin black shoes lengthened into a pair of tall sturdy boots.

Her bare neck was encircled by a silver chain bearing the mark of the omega.

And her dingy black-and-white dress shredded itself and fluttered away into nothingness, replaced by a vivid blue gown and a pure white apron splattered here and there with fresh, sticky red. Alice smiled as she spread her arms and steadied herself, drifting down to the earth below. _Beware, all those who would threaten my mind._

_Wonderland's savior has returned._

* * *

The Vale of Tears

_And here I thought no trip to Wonderland could be stranger than the last._

Alice hiccuped as she shrank again, passing through the tiny gap in the domino-and-dice arch into what appeared to be a cave formed from the discarded shell of some monstrous snail. Purple crayon on the far wall caught her eye, alerting her to the presence of a tiny crystal house hidden behind a nearby rock. She let it be for the moment though, instead popping back to full size and taking a short breather. She'd thought she'd seen all Wonderland had to offer in terms of confusion the last time she'd come, when she'd been thrown into a war for her own sanity without even so much as a proper hello. But already this particular jaunt into the inner workings of her mind was turning up one mystery after another. Guiding drawings that only appeared when she was the size of a mouse were just the smallest of the lot. The biggest, of course, being: _Why am I here in the first place?_

Granted, she'd admit that she had been rather more "hallucination happy" during the past fortnight than usual. Fleeing from Jabberwock-faced men in the street, avoiding the temptation to follow the White Rabbit as he darted around corners, having to be saved from her own Phantasmagorical wardrobe by Victor – oh yes, it had been quite the struggle to remain in the real world for the last two weeks. But given the way her subconscious always reacted when Bumby told her to visit Wonderland in trance, she hadn't expected it to call her back on its own. She'd thought the land didn't want her anymore – that it was doing just fine without her mucking about in it, thank you. Being abruptly pulled down into the Vale of Tears in the middle of a visit with Witless was the height of surprise.

Even weirder – there didn't seem to be anything that needed doing. The Vale of Tears had changed dramatically since the last time she'd seen it, but strictly for the better. Gone was endless fog and dead brown earth, thorn-throwing Roses and vicious Army Ants. This Vale had bright green grass, and blue skies filled with puffy white clouds. Moss-covered statues of herself wept rivers of cool saltwater, which flowed over the edges of the floating islands in sparkling waterfalls. Towering trees shaded her head with multicolored leaves. The flowers, rather than trying to attack her, lit up like friendly lamps as she approached. Ants had been traded for cow-headed birds, googly-eyed snails of every size imaginable – from slimy little creatures barely bigger than her hand to lumbering behemoths with trees growing on their backs – and those adorable little "nutterflies" she'd seen in her session. There was even a purple pool of Drink Me potion, a bath in which had ensured she'd never have to risk breaking every bone in her body looking up a recipe in the Skool library again. Everywhere you looked, there was something new and beautiful. It was if Wonderland had suddenly decided to revert to the simple, joyful place she'd dreamed up the afternoon of her seventh birthday. Not that she minded. It was nice to have a chance to just _explore_ again, without worrying if something was about to leap out and tear her to bits.

Still, even with everything so wonderful and calm, Alice wasn't about to let down her guard. The Cheshire Cat had greeted her with a warning when she'd first dropped down from the sky, after all. It was his usual cryptic nonsense about "a new law" reigning and "very rough justice all around," granted, but she'd taken the words to heart nonetheless. For all the irritation the Cat caused her, he'd rarely steered her wrong. And she was too cynical now, too hurt, to accept this veneer of happiness at face value. It was quite possible she simply hadn't stumbled upon where the evil lurked yet. She shivered as she thought of what _else_ she'd seen under hypnosis besides nutterflies and nature. _Was_ that river of black sludge waiting for her deeper in the Vale's valleys? Would she have to fight some monstrous doll later in her journeys? She hoped not, but hope hadn't served her as well as a good sturdy weapon in the past.

_Besides, _she thought as she walked around the rock to collect the latest of the set,_ there has to be a reason why these little memories are scattered across the landscape. _She'd run across the first one mere moments after her arrival in the Vale – a tiny crystal replica of her old house, floating idly by the river of tears. She'd spent at least five baffled minutes circling it, trying to puzzle out its purpose. Eventually, she'd given in to the urge to touch it – only to have it shatter into nothingness under her fingertips. And then, just for a moment, she'd been back in Oxford, playing leapfrog with Edith Gardner while Lizzie chatted with her playmate's older sister Mary. Lizzie had laughed as Alice won another round. _"You're part frog, Alice, I swear. You jump so well!"_ she'd declared –

And then Alice had been back in Wonderland, disoriented and just a little frightened. When she'd found the second house, waiting for her on a ledge past the weeping statue (where she'd swear she'd seen an Insane Child – where had it disappeared to?), she'd almost passed it by. But curiosity was still her weakness, and she'd gone ahead and touched it. That one had sent her back to a cold, rainy, and most of all boring day spent at home. She'd been amusing herself by repeatedly climbing onto the dining room table and jumping off, pretending she was a bird in flight before her feet hit the wooden floor. Mama had discovered her after the third jump and tried to get her to stop. _"If you leap from that table again, Alice, I'll expire!"_ she'd sworn, although it was hard to take her seriously when Alice could hear the laugh in her voice. _"You're two times too reckless, my girl!"_ And then it was back to Wonderland, with a set of appropriately table-like mushrooms to ascend popping from the earth before her. Memories, she'd realized then. The houses were memories she'd forgotten, slipping back into her consciousness at the tap of a finger.

At first, she'd been upset. What the hell was her Wonderland playing at? Why was it delivering memories to her, and in such an odd form? She'd spent nearly a year in therapy trying to _forget_! But she hadn't been able to stay angry for long. Being able to hear her parents' and sister's voices again was – nice. Comforting, in fact. For all her talk of forgetting, she'd realized, what she really wanted was to remember – remember her sister praising her, her mother playfully scolding her, her father sharing knowledge with her. Remember the good times that seemed so far away whenever her thoughts strayed to the horrors of the fire. By the time she'd found the third one, waiting for her on a ledge right above the mushrooms, she'd decided the little crystal houses were a pleasant addition to Wonderland's landscape.

The little crystal _syringes_ were rather less welcome. Discovering a memory from Dr. Wilson, even a relatively innocuous one, after her dip in the Drink Me pool hadn't exactly been fun. But she had to admit, it had piqued her curiosity even more. She couldn't help but wonder what other voices she'd hear, what other shapes she'd see. And what was the purpose of it all? Just to remind her that there were memories of her life worth keeping? No, it couldn't be, why throw in memories of _Rutledge _if that were the case. . . .

"_I'll never have more fun than when I rode the big slide in Hyde Park. Papa will take you soon, Alice."_

Alice felt a twinge of grief as she came out of the memory, Lizzie's voice still echoing around the little shell cavern. That conversation, about all the things Lizzie had done before Alice came along, had happened only days before the fire. _I never did get that ride,_ she thought, closing her eyes and gripping her apron tightly in both hands. _Oh, Mama, Papa, Lizzie. . . ._

No – no time to linger here and depress herself with thoughts about the past. She had to continue on with her journey. Although, taking another look around, this little cave seemed to be something of a dead end. Had those crayon scribbles she'd seen when she'd started shrinking led her here for nothing? That wasn't really Wonderland's way, though. . . .

She examined the terrain with a careful eye, looking for clues. There wasn't much to see. A few more glowing flowers, with petals shaped like blue candles and red spades – moss-covered rocks jutting up out of the grass – thin purplish walls curving over her head – a hole in the spiraled ceiling, revealing the sky – and right below that, one of those springy mushrooms that she'd seen popping up around the Vale. Well, almost – this one had a blue cap instead of a pink one. Alice leaned over it, studying it further. It looked the same in every other respect – was it just a natural color variation? Or did this one do something different and possibly horrible?

_Only one way to find out,_ she thought, and jumped onto it. The cap sprang upward, sending her sailing out through the hole into the sky –

And then, for a split second, the world around her became featureless white void. Alice looked around wildly as she floated in the nothingness. _Goddamn it, what did I do? Was that some sort of trap? Where am I?!_ Then her feet hit solid ground again, and Wonderland rebuilt itself around her, revealing –

A slide.

Alice covered her mouth to hold in the laugh. She was standing right at the top of the biggest slide she had ever seen, made of dominoes and green chalkboard. As she peered forward, she could see it twisting and curving around itself, making a corkscrew path to the ground. _Well well,_ she thought with a grin, _if I can't have Hyde Park. . . ._

She was about to sit down and push off when a glitter beside her caught her eye. Turning, she saw a delicate crystalline butterfly revolving slowly on the opposite side of the landing. It looked to be made from the same stuff as the little houses and the syringe. A memory of some sort, to be sure – but from who? Preparing herself for the possibility of something unpleasant (although, really, nothing could be worse than seeing the white walls of Rutledge around her again, however briefly), she placed her hand on the butterfly.

_Victor's bed was just as lumpy as hers, but with one's attention focused elsewhere, it made an acceptable seat. And Alice's attention was definitely focused elsewhere. She leaned forward a little, admiring the sketches her friend had pinned all over his walls. Despite being all in black and white, the drawings of the butterflies seemed to have just as much color and life in them as the real thing. "You have quite the talent for this," she told him, nodding at a picture of what he'd said was a Common Brimstone (what a name for a butterfly). "How long have you been drawing these?"_

"_Since I _could_ draw," Victor replied with a smile. __**"I've loved butterflies all my life. I don't see how anyone couldn't like such beautiful creatures."**_

Aha – apparently Victor was making his presence known in Wonderland as well. Alice smiled as she emerged from the memory. She'd agreed with him then, and she still agreed with him now. How could anyone not enjoy being around butterflies? They were like little living paintings, floating through the air and making the world a brighter, happier place. She'd adored them as a child, chasing after them and catching them in jars to display on her windowsill for a day or two before letting them go. And she liked them even more now that Victor had shared everything he knew about them with her. It was funny – Victor was usually quite shy and reserved, but if one asked him something about butterflies, he could talk your ear off. It was very amusing to watch him ramble on about migration patterns and feeding habits and the metamorphosis of caterpillars. (And then he'd realize he was rambling and get all flustered, which was even funnier.) _I wonder what he'd make of the nutterflies I keep seeing,_ she thought, watching jacks and dice drift around the top of the slide in a lazy circle. _Poor Victor – butterflies are practically non-existent in the East End. I bet he would just love it here. . . ._

She blinked and shook her head. _Stop getting distracted,_ she scolded herself. _You're not here to woolgather, you're here to find out why you've been called back._ She smirked. _And besides, this slide has been waiting so patiently for you to arrive – let's not disappoint it!_ With a giggle, she plopped herself onto the chalkboard surface and pushed off, wondering what other surprises Wonderland had waiting for her at the bottom.

* * *

"Get _off_ me!"

Alice swatted furiously at the Bolterflies clinging to her dress and neck, trying to dislodge them. They merely hissed at her, digging their needle-fine legs into her skin and sinking their – teeth? – right through her clothes and into her flesh. _What are they even biting me _with_?_ Alice thought, running to and fro and shaking herself. The Bolterflies clung on all the tighter. _They don't have mouths, they're bolts! And – oh, no, not one of _them_ too!_

The sludge creature toddled its way down the nearby slope, its cold china face fixed on her tormented form. Alice had encountered only a few of its brethren so far, but already she loathed them. The beasts were more mobile versions of the river that had tormented her so in her session, made of burning ooze and smoking pipes and bone-white porcelain. _Insidious Ruin,_ she'd thought after her first battle with them, and it described them very well. So well that she'd already decided to make it their official name. After all, she was hardly going to waste time coming up with a better one.

And now one was coming straight at her. She tried and failed again to free herself from the Bolterflies, wincing as they sucked her blood. "Wretched things!" she snarled. "No wonder the Duchess preferred to give me her precious pepper grinder rather than deal with the likes of you!"

The Bolterflies ignored her, intent on their meals. They didn't even move when the Ruin swiped at her, oblivious to her scream of pain as the hot tar fingers scorched her back. She darted away from the Ruin, almost in tears. Was there _nothing_ that could get these horrid insects off her? Was she going to be drained dry by the Wonderland equivalent of the mosquito five feet from the Duchess's back door?

_No! I am not going to die thanks to the efforts of a few bugs!_ she thought, blinking her eyes clear. With a flick of her wrist, her old friend the Vorpal Blade appeared in her hand. _And I'm certainly not going to do it in a place where I might end up as the main ingredient of a stew! I'll _chop_ these things off, even if I end up reducing myself to insect-sized pieces in the process!_

Thinking that conjured up an image in her mind of Victor's corpse bride, bursting into butterflies in the light of the moon. _Now wouldn't _that_ be useful,_ Alice grumbled to herself, slicing the wings off a Bolterfly on her leg. It fell away dead, only to be replaced by another. _To be able to just dissolve into something and reappear elsewhere. Perhaps if I concentrate hard enough, Wonderland will think it's the Land of the Dead and allow me the option?_ She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on a point behind a nearby tree.

There was a flutter of wings. A soft glow of blue. The sensation of being weightless and almost insubstantial. And then, suddenly, she was herself again, free of Bolterflies and behind the tree in question.

It took a scouting Bolterfly flying at her face to break her out of her stunned trance. Alice slashed and peppered her foes on automatic, her mind racing. How had she done that? She'd never managed such a feat on her previous visits. Could she just burst into butterflies whenever she wanted now? Or was that a one-time escape she'd been granted because her mind had been on Emily? She darted away from the dwindling swarm and tried the trick again, this time focusing on a spot near the slope.

Once more, she was nothing but whispering blue wings for a moment. Then her body obligingly reformed at the requested area. Laughing, Alice plunged her Blade deep into the belly of the surprised Insidious Ruin. "Thank you Victor!" she called up to the clouds as she disposed of her foe. "I wish I could bring you a Bolterfly or two to study!"

The last of the insects hissed and made a grab for her arm. She whirled away and felled it with the Blade. "Then again, I doubt even you would like these horrid things," she said, looking down at the fading corpses. "Now, where is that pig snout the Duchess wanted?"

* * *

"_The railway running through Wonderland sounds charming but inefficient. 'Noise and smoke' – like 'snips and snails,' perhaps. Best to forget that train. A mock turtle as conductor? Oh no, I don't think that will do at all."_

"Bugger off, doctor!" Alice snapped as the memory of Bumby's office slid away. "Snips and snails and puppy dog tails are much better than steaming and slithering and destroying my Vale!"

Perhaps that was being a little unfair to Dr. Bumby, but Alice didn't care. Not when that river of Ruin she loathed, that he'd helped her dream up, seemed to have finally found its way into Wonderland. The once-gorgeous landscape was falling to pieces around her, supplanted by endless fountains of the wretched black goo. _Why can't anything I love stay beautiful and innocent?_ Alice wondered, making her way back across the freshly-baked brown ledges that had led her to this memory. _It's bad enough everyone around me seems to die violently and unnaturally – must the same apply to the _landscape_?_

Apparently so – as she reached the top of what had once been a quiet valley, more trees came crashing down, falling away into some endless red-tinted abyss. There was some relatively untouched land on the other side of the new gap, though – and a tiny ginger figure in a white gown, waving to her. "That child again! What are you doing here as the world goes to hell?" she yelled.

The child just giggled and waved her across, before disappearing behind a rocky corner. Alice sighed and leapt, spinning in midair to allow her skirt to catch the breeze and carry her along. "I can never get a simple straight answer. . ."

This new island in the sky contained two things of note – a nasty infestation of Insidious Ruins and Bolterflies, and a twisted train platform, with a line of rusted, broken cars hanging off its far side. Alice sliced her way through the monsters with ease, then stared up at the sign above the Ruin-soaked stop. "Vale of Tears: Looking Glass Railway," she read. The very same train Dr. Bumby had mentioned. Alice _had _forgotten it, not thinking it worth fighting with the doctor over, but now the memories came rushing back – her first ride as a Pawn through the first two squares of Looking-Glass Land; giving the Mock Turtle the conductor's job so he'd have something to keep himself occupied besides crying over everything and nothing; catching the occasional ride to and fro as it expanded to encompass both the main kingdoms of her world. . . . Her lips curved in a sad smile. She'd never been all that fond of trains – too loud and smoky for her liking – but she'd always had a soft spot for the Looking-Glass Line.

The wail of metal being dragged over stone grabbed her attention, and she turned her head just in time to see the last of the battered train cars slip over the edge, toppling down into the endless storm that now filled the sky. Alice ran to watch them fall, feeling her stomach twist. What was going on here? Bumby had only told her to forget the train, not destroy it! Why would someone want to do away with the Looking-Glass Line? Who could be responsible for such destruction, such decay?

Who'd been responsible for maintaining the railroad?

The image of a tall man with an even taller top hat swam in front of her eyes. A man who'd gone from healthy pink cheeks to lurid green skin, from soft yielding flesh to firm unforgiving metal, from friendly madman to deranged lunatic. He'd tried to destroy this world before – tried to turn everything organic into unfeeling machines. But. . . "Hatter always hated mechanical malfunctions," she said to the world at large. "This disaster is either his doing – or his epitaph. But which?"

Well, there was only one way to find out. She knew the next stop on the Line had been Hatter's Domain – and despite the Vale's attempt at suicide, there were still a few pieces of track left to guide her along. Alice launched herself into the sky, twirling and floating toward the next tiny island.

Time to follow this train of thought and see where it led.


	4. The Drunkard Gets Her Due

Chapter 4

September 7th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

5:56 P.M.

_Where on earth could she be?_

Victor turned the corner onto Goring Street, looking left and right for any glimpse of Alice among the meandering crowds. He was doing his best to remain calm and composed – taking slow, even breaths, walking at a reasonable pace, and keeping his face set in as neutral an expression as possible. Only the fact that his hands never stopped moving – folding together, twisting his tie, rubbing the back of his neck – betrayed just how worried, how frightened, he really was. _I mustn't panic,_ he told himself as he walked down the street._ I cannot panic. Bad things happen when I panic. I cannot afford for anything bad to happen. Not when Alice is missing oh God what if she's hurt or lost or – no! Stay calm!_

That was easier said than done, of course. The instant the chemist had informed him that he hadn't seen Alice at all this afternoon, Victor's mind had decided that the best thing to do was start obsessing over the image of her lying unconscious and bleeding in some distant alleyway. Even now he was struggling to fight off all the worst fantasies his mind could conjure up – and it could conjure up quite a few. Her body lying broken in some forgotten ditch; her skull smashed by an overexcited horse; her last few fragments of innocence torn away by cruel groping hands –

He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. No – he couldn't let himself be distracted by his own overactive imagination. He had to focus on finding Alice. All he was doing now was upsetting himself with random conjecture that probably had no basis in reality –

_Who am I kidding, I live in Whitechapel!_ his inner voice screamed._ She's probably in terrible danger and by the time I find her she's going to be dead and while that means a happy reunion with her parents and sister it also means she'll never get to have a proper life and I'll never see her again and please God I can't lose someone else –_

"Hello, sir! Might a feeble old lady trouble you for a pound or two?"

Victor nearly leapt right out of his skin. Clutching his chest, he turned to see a rather old woman with one of the biggest noses he'd ever seen in his life (and he'd seen some big noses) regarding him with wary eyes. "Dear me, I thought for sure you were going to fall down dead right in the middle of the street," she commented. "Jumpy, aren't you?"

Victor swallowed, fighting off a blush. Well, that's what he got for letting his brain run away with him like that. "Do forgive me," he said, as his heart slowly stopped thudding against his ribcage. "I was thinking of something else, and you s-startled me."

"That much was obvious, dear." The woman gave him an ingratiating smile. "I am sorry for disturbing you, but I'm afraid I haven't got much in the way of coin today. Could you favor me with–"

She stopped abruptly, frowning. "Wait. . . ." She squinted, peering hard at him through her tiny glasses. "I think I've seen you about before. You're Victor Van Dort, aren't you?"

"Ah – yes, that's me," Victor said, biting his lip. Oh dear, this was just what he needed – someone else who knew about him from all those damn rumors. _Please don't call me a necrophiliac please don't call me a necrophiliac –_

"I thought so!" the woman cried. "You're that fellow who's staying at the Houndsditch Home with Alice! I've seen you out walking with her sometimes." She held out a frail hand. "Nurse Priscilla Witless. I used to work in Rutledge Asylum."

Victor blinked. "You – you did?" he said, shaking her hand almost on automatic. "Alice never mentioned you. Of course, she doesn't usually like to talk about her time in the a-asylum. . . ." And Victor didn't blame her. The few times she'd let something slip, he'd been horrified beyond belief. He'd already known that the last place he wanted to end up was inside a mental hospital, but hearing about her experiences in the bowels of Rutledge. . .he was stunned she didn't have more nightmares than she already did. Electric shocks, icy baths, bloodsucking leeches – how could such _torture_ be called medicine?

"I imagine she doesn't," Nurse Witless nodded. "It was a terrible time for us all. If she wasn't lying there still as a statue, she was screaming her head off. Mad as a hatter, poor dearie." She shook her head and tched. "I never thought she'd walk out of there on her own two feet."

"I'm glad she proved you wrong," Victor said, smiling as he pictured Alice confidently striding out of the asylum gates, suitcase in hand, ready to take on the world. Oh, if only he could see that look on her now, instead of the fear and exhaustion that so often haunted her eyes these days. . . .

"Oh, I don't know about that, Master Van Dort," Nurse Witless said, just a bit too casually. "She seems to be backsliding, I'm afraid."

Victor stared at the nurse, a little cold spot forming in his gut. "What?"

Nurse Witless grinned – a most inappropriate expression for delivering such news, in Victor's opinion. "I met her earlier a street or two away from the Flaming Stallion. Poor dear seemed in a bad way – kept looking around her like she was expecting something to jump from the shadows and eat her up in one bite! Twas clear to me that she was seeing things again. So I took her up to visit my pigeon coops – such pretty birds they are. They always calm her right down. But today–" Nurse Witless shook her head. "Well, I was having a pleasant chat with the girl, when out of nowhere she gasps and starts staring at me like I was no less than the Prince of Darkness himself. I tried to ask her what was wrong, but she wouldn't answer. Just kept backing away from me, looking about ready to scream. Then she collapsed in a dead faint. I thought she'd given herself a heart attack for a moment."

Victor's heart didn't know whether to leap or sink. On the one hand, the news that Alice was indeed seeing monsters on the street was about the worst he could get – particularly in the light of his tortured imaginings. On the other. . . . "I've been looking for her for at least a hour," he told the nurse, wringing his hands together. "Is she all right?"

"I don't know, sorry to say," Nurse Witless replied, not sounding sorry in the slightest. "I managed to bring her down to my room, but while I was looking for the smelling salts, she woke up, babbled something about a cat, and then raced out into the hall. I tried to follow her, but she was leaping down the stairs like – well, a madwoman. By the time I reached the streets, she was long gone."

Sinking it was, then. Victor put his face in his hands. "Oh no," he groaned. "I hope she hasn't gotten hurt. . . ."

"I'd be more worried about whoever's around her getting hurt," Nurse Witless said, edging closer to him. "You don't know what she was like in Rutledge, do you? Nearly clawed some poor woman's face off when she tried to give the girl a bath."

Victor looked back up. "Really?"

"Really," Nurse Witless said with a nod. "Seemed to think the nurse was some noblewoman she wasn't fond of. And then there was the incident with the orderlies and the spoon. . .she didn't wake up often in that place, but when she did – watch out!"

Victor frowned. Despite the woman's serious expression, there seemed to be a spark of _glee_ in Witless's eyes. Was telling him about how Alice had suffered all that entertaining? "She wasn't w-well at the time. . .I'm sure she's sorry," he said, feeling the need to defend his best friend's honor. Frown deepening, he added, "And was that one of those saltwater baths she told me about? The kind where the water is colder than ice?"

The glee vanished, replaced by grumpiness. "Could have been," Witless said vaguely, not meeting his eyes. Then a sly little smile appeared on her lips. "But I think there was something off about the girl even before she entered Rutledge. Do you know what I heard her say one night not long after she came to us?"

"What?" Victor asked, eying the nurse.

"'All died on my account, I couldn't save you,'" Witless declared, face triumphant. "Sounds to me like she had more to do with that fire than she likes to let on. Don't you think that's suspicious?" She shook her head again, now all compassion and sympathy. "Poor thing must be eaten up with guilt. . . ."

Victor gaped at the former nurse. Was she – was she really – and she expected him to – "How – how _dare_ you?!"

Judging by Witless's baffled expression, that wasn't what he was supposed to say. "How dare I what?" she replied, blinking.

"How dare you tell me those things to try and poison my mind against Alice! How _dare_ you imply that she was the one to kill her family?!" Victor snarled, fists clenched. "And with something as – as _silly_ as that! _Any_ child would probably say such a thing after suffering such a tragedy! It means _nothing_! And yet you – and you were a _nurse_?!"

Witless glared at him. "And a damn good one!" she snapped back. "And it certainly means something to Alice, otherwise she wouldn't keep pay–"

She stopped short, eyes darting from side to side. Victor felt the wheels start turning in his head. Alice got a decent wage from Dr. Bumby. . .and yet she never seemed to have any money. . . . "You've been _blackmailing_ her?"

"An old woman has got to eat!" Witless cried, giving up all pretense of civility. "You swell, you've never known what it's like to be hungry and thirsty! I need my drink! It doesn't matter to me how I get the money!"

"Obviously," Victor said between clenched teeth. "I take a _very_ dim view of people who manipulate and hurt others just for money, Nurse Witless."

"Do you now? Spoken like someone who's never had an empty purse," Witless shot back, eyes narrowed. "Besides, if it weren't for me bringing her to the attention of Dr. Bumby, Alice would be selling her backside for her dinner! Don't I deserve consideration for that?"

"Consideration does not mean sucking every last pound out of an already-struggling young lady!" Victor snapped. Even as he said it, though, he knew it wouldn't do any good. The people in the East End didn't care for anyone but themselves. 'Empathy' was a dirty word in this part of London. But he was just so _disgusted_. Was it really so hard to keep hold of a few morals in this horrible city? To at least not make life any worse for your fellow citizens?

"Oh yes, like _she'd _spend them on anything important," Witless said, rolling her eyes. "Girl's been mad as a March hare for years. Did you know, back in June she was actually going to waste her money buying _you_ a birthday present? Your family could buy every shop in this neighborhood! It was much better served being spent at the Stallion."

"Buying me. . . ." Victor recalled the day right before his birthday, when he'd caught Alice coming back from some sort of trip. She'd looked absolutely heartbroken about something, and he'd never found out why. . . . He hadn't realized his ire could rise any higher. "That was because of _you_?! Do you know how upset you made her?"

"Do you care so much about getting a present?" Witless spat. "Typical rich brat. How you've not been nailed for your wallet by even the worst gonoph is–"

"I don't give a damn about you robbing me of a gift!" Victor snapped, flinging his arms out to the sides. "I care about how much you hurt my best friend! When she came home that day, I thought for sure she was going to start crying! I worried about her all night!"

Now it was Witless's turn to stare at him. "Wait – you – you don't actually _care_ for the girl, do you?" she asked, astonished.

"Of course I do!" Victor shouted. "Alice is the only reason I've been able to tolerate living in this wretched neighborhood! She's kind, caring, funny, beautiful–"

"_Beautiful_?! Bloody hell, you're acting like you want to marry her!"

Victor hesitated a moment. Then he leaned forward, hitting Witless with a steely glare. "And what if I do?"

Witless's eyes went wide. "You – you're lying!"

"Not about this," Victor said quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on Witless's. "Never about this."

The woman gaped. "You – you actually – I would have never. . . ." The ingratiating smile made an abrupt reappearance. "Er – you know, I never meant dear Alice any harm, it's just – an old woman has such trouble getting along in the world. . . ." she babbled, backing away a step.

"I'm sure you do, you rotten lushington," Victor replied, voice like ice. "And I suspect things are about to get much worse." He straightened up to his full six feet three inches, glowering at Witless down the length of his nose. "I'm going off to find Alice. And when I do, I'm going to take her home, and I'm going to make sure she's never bothered by the likes of _you_ again. And if, later, I discover that you've continued blackmailing her and making her life more miserable than it already is. . . ."

He actually wasn't sure what he'd do, but trailing off like that seemed to encourage Witless's imagination to fill in the blanks. She nodded rapidly. "Yes, of course, Master Van Dort. You'll see neither hide or hair of me. Promise."

"Good. Good day to you, Nurse Witless."

With that, Victor turned and walked away, leaving the old woman to wring her hands behind him. Part of him was shocked at his behavior. Had he really just threatened an elderly lady? How could he have done such a thing? Didn't that make him no better than the rest of the thugs who roamed these ugly streets? He ought to turn around and apologize.

However, a much larger part of him was still seething. How could that old witch do that to Alice? How _could_ she? His friend had so little already. . . . Was dumping beer and gin down her throat all that important to Witless?

_Yes, of course it is,_ he thought bitterly._ Anyone who lives here has turned their heart into a lump of coal so it won't get in the way of what they want. _Victor shook his head, growling under his breath. _Disgusting neighborhood. . . . If only I could go back to Burtonsville. Or – or anywhere, really. I feel like the longer I stay here in Whitechapel, the closer I get to losing everything good and decent about myself._

He stopped at the corner and let out a deep sigh. The worst part was, he was no closer to finding Alice. And if Nurse Witless's information was correct (which he was starting to doubt – the old hag would probably say just about anything if she thought it would help turn him against his lo – his friend), she was hallucinating even worse than usual while lost in the city. Which meant she could be just about _anywhere_. Again the image of her lying battered and bruised in some ditch assaulted his mind. Was that really destined to be his belov – his _best friend's_ ultimate fate?

_She got out of Rutledge on her own two feet, despite what everyone thought,_ he reminded himself, rubbing his forehead. _She can get past this. Calm down and think this through logically before you work yourself into an early grave._ So there was the strong possibility Alice was seeing things while she wandered. What precisely did that mean? Witless had mentioned her talking about a cat – the Cheshire Cat? Was Alice back in Wonderland? Was she fighting off another wave of monsters from her subconscious? If that was the case, she could very well be a danger to herself. _And quite possibly others,_ he allowed, wincing as he thought of Alice clawing at someone's face in a deluded haze. _Oh dear, poor Alice. . .I've got to find her, and soon. I just wish I knew where to start looking!_


	5. Reassembly Needed, Destruction Not

Chapter 5

Hatter's Domain

There was a steady clicking overhead as the teapot cable car – a product of Hatter Industries, according to an interior plaque – trundled along its wire. Alice stood right in front of the spout, gazing out through the large windows onto the floating factories that made up the adopted homeland of her (once and possibly still-former) friend. "The Hatter's Domain. Almost as I remember it," she murmured, almost smiling as she marked the familiar windows glowing red, the gears and cogs turning and floating through the sky, and the broken hat-shaped topper to the central clock tower. Not the most welcoming place in the world, but also not nearly as bad as the Land of Fire and Brimstone – or Queensland. She shuddered as she recalled her dip into the tentacle-laden depths of the latter. She'd take toxic green skies and manic words scribbled on the walls over _that_ any day. Besides, the domain looked to be in somewhat better repair than when she'd last seen it – at least, the hints of the asylum seemed to be gone. That was good, right?

"Appearances, as you know better than most, can be deceiving, Alice," the Cheshire Cat said in apparent response to her thought, appearing before her in a flash of mottled white and orange light. He lifted a blue-skinned paw to the window. "Much has changed since your last visit."

Alice eyed the Cat. Was that supposed to have sounded as sinister as he made it? "Dr. Bumby says that change is constructive. That different is good," she replied, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

Cheshire seemed unconvinced by Bumby's words – not that Alice blamed him. She could think of plenty of changes in her life that had been less than constructive. "Different denotes neither bad nor good, but it certainly means 'not the same,'" he commented, orange eyes flicking left as what looked like a plucked dodo fluttered its way through the sky. Suddenly he pushed his face into hers, voice turning dark as his smile gained an extra edge to it. "Find the Hatter, Alice. He knows more about different than you."

Alice drew back a bit, frowning. Did Cheshire have to be so bloody ominous? She knew there was something wrong with Wonderland now, thank you very much. No need for any theatrics. She'd allow him the point, though – any man who'd turned himself into more machine than man (not that Hatter had been much of the latter before) would know more about different than almost anyone. And after seeing the Vale of Tears collapse into Ruin-soaked tatters so close to the wreckage of the Looking-Glass Line, she definitely wanted to have a talk with Wonderland's premier industrialist. Was he up to his old tricks – back on a quest to turn the world into a mechanical wasteland? Did she have to give him another lesson in good table manners, so to speak? Or was she about to discover that Hatter had fallen to a more lethal power? She'd thought at first perhaps he was responsible for all this Ruin fountaining out of every crack in the landscape, but looking at it now, it wasn't really his style. He was more about gears and cogs, hats and tea, rockets and steam. Sure, his Nightmare Spiders had had doll head bodies, but that was hardly enough to convict the man. Automaton. Whatever the bloody hell he was.

Still, she was wary. Hatter, with the way he liked to upgrade himself, was a dangerous foe. The fight they'd had on her last visit had taken more out of her than she'd like to admit. And, deep down, she couldn't help but hope that he'd returned to the side of good. After all, if the _Duchess_, of all people, could become an ally after previously attempting to devour her whole. . . . "But does he know more about the difference between bad and good?"

The sound of cracking glass distracted both of them before Cheshire could make any reply. Looking around, Alice saw a swarm of Bolterflies descending on the teapot car, its individual members throwing themselves madly against the windows. "Making friends, Alice?" Cheshire asked, coolly regarding the growing destruction. "You're as randomly lethal and entirely confused as you ever were."

"Would you prefer I act like a certain hobbyist entomologist I know and pull out a sketchbook to record these wretched things for posterity?" The car rocked, making Alice stumble. Would the peppercorns of the Duchess's grinder penetrate the glass? On the other hand, did she really _want_ to break a window this high up?

"A certain hobbyist entomologist would be more interested in why you've taken on a certain ability of his ex-wife's, I would think," Cheshire retorted, his grin becoming more a smirk for a moment. "Why are you imitating the dead, Alice? I thought you were past wishing to be like them – or is Emily special, for some reason?"

Alice glared at Cheshire as the car shuddered again. She barely had enough patience for his riddles at the best of times – and certainly not when she was under attack. "Useful defense is nothing to be sneezed at," she snapped.

"I never said that. I only suggested most people would not think of a friend's former love and how best to emulate her when threatened by death," Cheshire said, one ear waggling.

Insufferable feline! "I've managed without you so far, Cat," Alice informed him coldly, then flicked her wrist. "Return to whatever hovel's home to you – I'll call if I need you."

Cheshire's grin widened. "Predictably rash. It's not a question of 'if,' Alice, it's 'when,'" he said, smug certainty dripping from his voice. One window shattered under the Bolterflies' onslaught as the car careened out of control past the docking station. "Now hold on, and, as they say, 'shut up.'"

With that, he was gone. Alice rolled her eyes. "So typical," she muttered, kicking away a hissing Bolterfly before grabbing onto the nearest handhold and bracing herself.

The car rocketed forward, straight toward what Alice just knew was the thickest wall in the entire complex. The Bolterflies, sensing danger, scattered just before the spout introduced itself to the green-stained brick. There was a terrific crash, a cloud of black smoke, the scream of metal against metal, and a jolt that sent her tumbling across the rocking car. Her head smacked against the steel frame, and all went dark for a minute.

She regained consciousness to find herself sprawled out on a dull grey metal plate suspended from the ceiling by a thick chain, a hovering steam jet belching hot air in front of her. Above her head, the shattered remains of the teapot car rested atop what appeared to be an intricately worked girder. Alice got to her feet with a wince. "I've made more graceful entrances," she muttered, brushing herself off. "I suppose I should be grateful nothing's – broken. . . ."

She frowned as she got a better look at her body. What on earth had happened to her dress? Instead of bright blue and white cloth, she was suddenly clad in deep black and brown leather, with a frilly white collar, some sort of outside corset, and more belts than she could count. She critically examined a sleeve. It was strange, to be sure – but there was no denying this dress fit much better with Hatter's Domain than her favorite blue. A worried thought hit her, and she reached up and felt her hair. No, long as ever, thankfully. "You see fit to alter my fashion sense, but not to 'fix' the one thing you've complained about most," she commented to herself with a smirk. "Typical Hatter." She looked up at the machinery high above her head, then jumped into the steam jet. "Let's see if there's anything else still typical about you."

* * *

_Turn valve – _The stiff metal wheel groaned under her hands _– receive steam._

Alice smiled as the requested steam jet appeared, hovering at the far end of the checkered platform. _Fortunate that my mind does not hate me enough to leave me stranded out here,_ she thought, jogging toward the billowing white flow. _Maybe now I'll _finally_ be able to penetrate Hatter's factories and see if he knows anything. Funny – after being literally dropped into the middle of this domain on my last visit, I never thought it would be this hard to get inside._ She sighed. _Then again, maybe he's trying to keep me out. I_ _do hope he's not still hostile; I _would_ like to be able to talk to him as a friend again. . . ._

She scanned the area around her, mentally going over her path. Jump into the steam jet, float over to that – gear? Cog? She'd never been quite sure of the difference – that kept raising and lowering, leap over to that other bit of broken floating floor, jump again and make her way through the nearby hole in the wall, then cross her fingers and pray that it actually led–

Wait. She could see something shimmering on the tiny platform above the little red light to the right of the gear (or cog). Alice backed up and squinted at it. It was – a crystal butterfly! _Victor! I wasn't expecting a memory from him here,_ she thought with a smile. _Then again, that one I just got from Lizzie was rather extraneous as well – did I really need a reminder about how open and gentle her heart was?_ She shrugged and leapt into the steam. _No matter – time for a little detour on my journey._

Her skirt billowed out around her like a parachute, supporting her over the column of hot air. Alice bit back a giggle – much as having to take the long way around Hatter's Domain made her want to gnash her teeth at times, it was almost worth it for the chance to fly on the wings of steam again. _I wonder if Victor would want to draw me as an angel if he saw me now, in all my black-clad glory?_ she thought, spinning in place to face the platform. _Or would he just want to see if he could fly too? Not that I could blame him – this is my favorite part of all of this._ She drifted out of the flow and, before gravity could get a proper hold on her, jumped again.

For a split-second, the air went solid under her feet. Then she was floating again, coasting through the air on a cushion of jewel-colored feathers and glowing butterflies. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the freedom of almost-flight. Perhaps this was more limited than being a bird or bat with proper wings, but she'd take it none the less. Not that she had much of a choice, given that this current area was all huge gaps of endless sky between floating chunks of checkered floor, slowly spinning hunks of machinery, and dangling bits of oversized cutlery. She'd have died five times over if she hadn't been gifted with this amazing skirt. Still, even if it was hers only as a matter of necessity, she was going to enjoy it to its fullest. When one was fighting for their peace of mind, one had to take their pleasures where they could find them.

Her boots touched down on what passed for solid ground in this domain. Alice opened her eyes, flicked her hair out of her face, then leaned forward and touched the butterfly.

"'_Earn Your Keep.' One would think Dr. Bumby had ulterior motives in placing this right in front of my–"_

_BANG!_

_Alice nearly jumped out of her skin, sending the sampler she'd been trying to straighten swinging madly from its nail. She slapped it hard against the wallpaper to stop it falling before darting into the foyer. Victor was stumbling through the front doors, coughing and wheezing like he'd gone back in time and convinced his younger self to take up the pipe. Alice rushed forward to support him. "Victor?" she asked, patting his back. Bloody hell, he was the exact same shade of ugly grey as the ash in the fireplace. "Are you all right? Why don't you sit down. . . ."_

_Victor let her lower him into a chair, still gasping for breath. Alice hovered over him as he struggled to speak, wondering if it would be necessary to fetch Dr. Bumby – or a real doctor.__** "Oh – the smog today is just awful!"**__ he eventually choked out. __**"I don't know how anyone can stand this, Alice. Who would want to live in a city when it's so smelly and dirty?"**_

Alice grimaced, rubbing her throat in sympathy. "Search me, Victor," she mumbled as the memory dissipated. "If I had my way, I'd be out in the country, as far from London as I could get. And I know you'd be right by my side. Or, to be truly honest, racing out in front of me." Funny – she'd thought no one could hate London as much as her, but Victor – oh, he utterly _despised_ the city. All her complaints about Whitechapel seemed to be magnified tenfold in his mind. He'd started to acclimatize himself to the grime and the crime as the months went on, but it hadn't stopped his griping at all. _Although I'd venture a guess that at least some of his loathing is misplaced hate toward his parents for making him move there,_ she thought._ Entirely justified misplaced hate, of course. If I ever met a person who said they _enjoyed _living in Whitechapel, I'd wonder if they'd recently escaped from Rutledge._

_I wonder what he's doing while I'm gallivanting about here?_

Alice pursed her lips, staring thoughtfully up at the hazy yellow-green sky. She hadn't considered the question before, but now that he was on her mind. . .she realized she was starting to miss him. The wide-open spaces of Wonderland were a relief after the cramped streets of Whitechapel, but. . .they were also rather lonelier. "I've gotten far too used to having someone around to converse with as I walk," she murmured to herself. "What would you make of Hatter's Domain, Victor? I know it's not much to look at–" she took a deep sniff "– but it certainly smells a lot better. Must be a side effect of having freshly-brewed tea as a fuel source rather than coal and wood." She smirked as a thought came to her. "Easier on your lungs, but hardly as good for your stomach, I bet."

As if in response, her own belly let out a rather pitiful-sounding growl. "Hush, you," she told it. "It may smell good, but I wouldn't trust anything from his tea table until I was sure it was both poison- and mercury-free. And that none of the cutlery or teacups were going to attack me."

Her stomach either didn't or wouldn't grasp the dangers of eating tainted food with murderous utensils and growled again. Alice jabbed it with a finger. "Hush or I'll tighten the belts on this new corset and give you something to growl about."

Silence. Alice smirked again. "Much better. At least I have that much control over myself." She looked out across the landscape again, at the hole she'd been aiming for. "And who knows," she added, leaping out into space and twirling to reach the cog (or gear) before it lowered again. "Perhaps Hatter has too. Wonder if he'd be willing to give me the answers I seek if I promised to attend a tea party. . . ."

* * *

_So this is the Lost & Found. Or, rather, the Dump This Here & Forget About It. I hope those crayon scribbles have continued to steer me right. . . ._

Alice splashed her way into the large, relatively empty room, appraising it with a frown. As befitted a glorified garbage heap, it was a mess. Piles of melted cogs, gears, and other bits of metal waste loomed over her head in strange statuary. Old forgotten barrels of tea lined the rusted walls. Stagnant water stood in greenish pools on the floor. And in front of her, propped up against some of the junk and muttering to himself about "bad dreams" and "blasted good nights," was the subject of her search – the Hatter.

Well – _part_ of the Hatter. Alice paused in her advance and stared. What was in front of her was nothing more and nothing less than the Hatter's head. It looked about the same as she remembered – green skin, jagged teeth, overlarge ears and nose – but it terminated at the neck. A short way to the left was a torso bound in the white canvas of a straitjacket – or, well, what one could have of a straitjacket without sleeves. Various plugs showed where the head, arms, and legs were supposed to go. Frowning, she reached down and picked up the head (lighter than she expected – perhaps he really didn't have a brain, like she'd always quietly suspected). "Hatter, I recall leaving you in a decrepit condition – but not in pieces."

"What? What?!" The Hatter's yellow eyes opened, darting all around before finally focusing on her. "Oh, it's you," he grumbled, not sounding at all happy to see her. "Took you long enough!"

Alice decided to ignore his lack of gratitude for the moment. There were bigger fish to fry. "What's happened here?" she asked, looking over his head. It was a pretty sorry sight. Cuts and bruises decorated his skin, and one ear was nearly split in half. Weirdest of all, however, was that his bald pate was completely bare. "You've lost your hat! And some – parts – are missing," she added awkwardly. She knew she should be more concerned over the fact that Hatter had been torn into pieces, but – well, he seemed to be surviving well enough without the rest of his body. The fact that his hat had disappeared to parts unknown, however – that sent chills down her spine. What sort of calamity could result in someone as powerful as the Hatter being deprived of his namesake chapeau?

"Missing indeed," the Hatter agreed, his teeth scraping at the buckles on her dress. "Though things being what they are, I barely miss their missing!" he added, in a tone that suggested he was trying to convince himself as much as Alice.

Alice wasn't fooled. "Wouldn't say no to a bevy of cockroaches to carry you around, I think," she commented, carrying the head over to the torso. "Let's get you settled a bit more comfortably." She fitted the neck onto the top plug, and heard it click into place. "Better?"

Hatter wiggled his head a few times as she released him. "Some," he allowed, then frowned at her. "Now, as for what's happened – you should know that better than I! It's your place, after all! I know my place!"

Alice put her hands on her hips, wondering why everyone – particularly people who were well-known for upsetting the Queen of Hearts and getting themselves thrown in jail by the White King and Queen – had to lecture her. What was wrong with some friendly conversation once in a while? _You've spoiled me, Victor, you really have._ "When did you _ever_ know your place? Or how to keep it?" she retorted. "Now what's going on?"

As if in response, there was a roar of machinery from somewhere far above them. Alice's head jerked toward the ceiling as the room vibrated from the force of the noise. _What the_ –

"Aaahhhhh! That's going on!" Hatter cried, eyes wide and upset. "And around, and up and down, in my ears, in through my eyes, up my nostrils, down my gullet and writhing in my guts!"

That – sounded a lot like something she'd said to Papa once at the Waterloo train station. And that roar – it _did_ remind her of a steam engine. Were Hatter's factories rebuilding the Looking-Glass Line, then? Had she managed to get herself all worked up over nothing?

But. . .that had been no ordinary roar. That had been a tortured screech of metal and steam, a sick perversion of the sound her sweet little train had made. No – if the Looking-Glass Line was being rebuilt, it was being rebuilt in a form Alice was pretty sure wouldn't pass muster. "Papa was exceedingly fond of trains," she commented with a frown. "I don't like them much."

"You won't like this one at all," Hatter informed her, brow furrowed. "Nothing like when Mock Turtle was in charge of the Looking-Glass Line. This railroad's a bloody shambles! The stink is ferocious; light blinding; noise hellacious–"

"Ah, quite, Hatter," Alice said quickly, cutting him off before he could really get going. "I get the idea. A bad train."

A gloved hand on a mechanical arm suddenly reached down and grasped the Hatter by the cog embedded in his back, lifting him high into the air. Alice stepped back, watching him rise with puzzled eyes. Had he summoned it somehow while they were talking, using some internal mechanism she had no hope of understanding? Or had it simply sensed her putting him back together and automatically responded to the call of reassembly? _Why am I trying to figure it out – this world runs on nonsense and dream logic._

Hatter himself barely seemed to notice his change in position. "The world is upside-down, Alice!" he whined. "Inmates run the asylum – no offense," he added hastily as Alice gave him a look. "And worst of all–" His eyes squinted, as if in an attempt to contain tears. "I'm left _tea-less_!"

"Tragic," Alice responded in the blandest voice she could muster. Of course _that_ would be the only thing he cared about. Why had she come to this forsaken dump to find him again?

On the other hand. . .she finally had a hint as to what was going on. For all his instability, Hatter had been the first to give her some real information. Even if he wasn't exactly a friend, he didn't appear to be a foe any longer. Maybe if she completed the work she'd started. . . . "If I do help, will you help me in return?"

"Cross my heart! If I had one," Hatter amended. "Find my limbs and toss them into the chutes! Machines will do the rest." He gave her what passed for a smile with him. "Be on your way now, that's a good girl! Heh-ha! – best way out is through the clock face."

"Clock face?" Alice craned her head. Beyond jagged clock hands and dangling chains was a ceiling made of glass, marked with the hours in Roman numerals. The symbol for mercury glowed crimson in the center, hauntingly familiar. "Are we below where you tried to kill me last time?"

"No – where I intended to disable you and turn you into a mechanical creature much like myself," Hatter corrected, although he had the sense to sound embarrassed about it.

"Yes, because that's so much better."

"I'm past that now, Alice, I swear! I promise not to harm one strand of that overly-long hair of yours. And you'll have quite a bit of trouble getting to the source of the problem without me. I'm the only one who can get you to Assemblage (or Destruction) As Needed! That wonderful skirt of yours may get you over small gaps, but my legs could cross a canyon in a single bound!" he proclaimed proudly.

"I'll hold you to that," Alice informed him, crossing her arms. "Who has your limbs, anyway?"

"Who else? March and Dormy!"

"The March Hare and the Dormouse?" Alice blinked, trying to process that. The March and Dormy she'd known had been rather silly creatures, more prone to overdosing on tea cakes and sugar than violently tearing friends apart. Even when she'd come across them in Hatter's lab, strapped to horrific torture devices and transformed into wretched half-mechanical chimera, Dormy's main complaint had been Hatter depriving them of tea. Them suddenly staging a coup and leaving their best friend to rot in the bowels of his own factories was – different, to say the least.

"The very same! I thought we were getting along rather well in the wake of the Queen's passing. I'd given them some lovely upgrades, all the tea they could drink, all the riddles they could answer. . . ." He sighed, eyes downcast. "It was almost like old times." His brow crinkled with anger. "And then they suddenly came storming in one day talking about 'new regime' this and 'forget the past' that – forget the past, bah! They didn't seem too keen to forget when they tore me to pieces! I _told_ Dormy that the rat tail was all I had, and that I'd give it some fluff when I had the chance–"

Alice stared down at her feet as Hatter ranted on. "Forget the past?" she echoed softly. Well, it appeared two Wonderlanders had embraced Dr. Bumby's favorite philosophy. It didn't seem to be doing them much good, however. Certainly hadn't done _Hatter_ much good. _Just another reason to doubt the good doctor's effectiveness. Or maybe March and Dormy are applying it wrong – they'd be the sort to mix it all up. . . ._ "Where can I find them?" she asked, turning her face back to her friend.

"And I said that monocle – what? Oh. The March Hare is ruining my hard work in Cranking Up & Pressing Down, while the Dormouse is making a mess of Smelling & Regurgitating," Hatter growled, then frowned. "Or is it the other way around?" He shook his head. "Doesn't matter – visit either you like first. They're both mad as monkey mash!"

"Right," Alice sighed. Her eternal destiny – to go among mad people. "And how exactly _do_ I get out through the clock face?"

"The elevator, of course!" Hatter cried, jerking his head left and right to indicate little alcoves in the garbage, both screened in by sheets of scrap metal. Alice could see a large steel pillar in one and a pressure pad in the other through the gaps. "Just weigh down the pad to call it, then unweigh the pad to uncall it! Easy as 3.14159265359!"

Alice was about to ask how on earth she was supposed to do that _and_ take the elevator at the same time when the faintest outline of shimmering purple caught her eye on the outer wall of the pad alcove. One hiccup and a brief loss of height later, the image of a mechanical rabbit clutching a watch was revealed to her. Aha – another use for those strange clockwork bunny bombs she'd collected on the way down here. "I see," she said, returning to her normal size and summoning the suggested implement. "I suppose I should thank you for these," she added to Hatter, holding it up. "They've been most useful in breaking through blocked passages. I don't know why they ended up in the junk piles with you."

"Aren't they lovely? If only the White Rabbit had gotten a chance to see them," Hatter said, all pride. "Well, that's up to you now. Go on, you're wasting Time! And he doesn't like that now any more than he did in the past."

"I don't like it either." She set the first rabbit against the piled metal in front of the pressure pad and set it hopping. Moments later, all that was left of both blockage and bomb were a few screws on the floor. She smirked over at Hatter as she set the second to clear the path to the elevator. "But I'm afraid you'll just have to hang around until I'm done."

"Oh, very funny," Hatter muttered. "Just get my limbs so we can put paid to these usurpers!"

* * *

"Nooo! My precious domain! And the guests! All I really wanted was another tea party. . . ."

Alice gaped as Hatter knelt down by the bodies of the March Hare and the Dormouse, cradling them to his chest. What the hell was he on about? All the mercury from his former profession had rendered him less than stable, that she knew, but this seemed extreme even for him. Not a minute ago he'd been saying that they _deserved_ to die for being the "destroyers of Wonderland!" For God's sake, _he'd_ been the one to smash their giant automaton and kill them! (Which annoyed her just a pinch – _she _was the one who'd had to avoid being dissolved like a sugar cube in boiling tea and pounded flat as a pancake by steel fists. She should have been the one to take them down.) And now he wanted to stay here and mourn their fallen foes while Assembly (or Destruction) As Required fell down around their ears?! She'd been capable of changing moods on a dime back in the asylum, but this took the cake.

Not to mention there was the matter of the train to consider. She'd only gotten a glimpse of Wonderland's new rail line, but what she'd seen had not been encouraging. The train had looked more like a row of evil cathedrals, their stained glass windows glowing red as hot coals as they'd thundered past. Streams of fire had leeched from the engine, licking at the sides of the monstrosity and sending her pulse racing. The smoke and ash that poured from the stack had had the very stench of Hell itself. And as it had chugged out into the cloudy night, Alice had sworn she'd seen Ruin dripping from its undercarriage. An "infernal train" she'd called it, and there were no better words for such a horror. Something like that could only hurt Wonderland – and now it was loose in her head! And the only three people who could tell her anything about how to stop it were dead, dead, and obliviously suicidal! "Please, Hatter, you promised!" she yelled above the sound of falling beams and hissing steam, trying to get her ally's attention. "Where is that train going? What's its purpose? Tell me – _now_."

Hatter glared at her as he extracted a teacup from somewhere in the depths of his gigantic hat. "There's no time for – whatever it is you want to talk about," he declared, then grinned. "It's time for tea! Talk trains with Turtle, he ran the Looking-Glass Line." Before Alice could reply, he turned away again, clearing his throat. "Come on, you lot!" he cried to the broken corpses splayed across his lap. "We can still be friends! I've got a fine Darjeeling – drink, drink!"

It was pathetic, watching the way he shoved the cup against their unresponsive lips. "How can you want to have another tea party with them?" Alice demanded, balling her fists. "They tore you to bits and left you to rot in the deepest recesses of the Lost & Found!"

Hatter ignored her, dumping hot tea over the Dormouse's limp whiskers. "Come along, Dormy, that always used to get you up in a jiffy!"

"They're _dead_, Hatter!" Alice screamed. "And we will be too if we don't escape! Perhaps you don't care, but I do! Wonderland's in danger again, and I must save it!"

Hatter shot her a look over his shoulder. "Now see here, your young man's told you many times that the dead can get up and walk again!"

"My–" Alice blinked. "He's not my–" Well, she guessed he _was_, in a way, but – no, getting off track Alice! "Victor's a sweet boy, but there's some admitted questions about his sanity–"

"As if you're one to judge," Hatter pointed out. Alice inclined her head, forced to give him the point. "And don't say he's not your young man – what if it was him here? I'd be more polite if you wanted to spend your last minutes in his company!"

"He wouldn't – if he'd been trying to murder me – if it was a matter of life and death–"

But deep inside, she knew Hatter had got her. What if it _was_ Victor lying there, limp and cold and – She bit her lip, trying not to picture it. When that didn't work, she instead tried to picture him up and about, just with a blue tinge to his skin and perhaps a few bones sticking out here and there. That – didn't help much either. Either way he was dead, and. . . . Could she really just leave him there? Could she run away without taking even a fraction of a second to say goodbye?

Hatter smirked. "And you always told _me_ it was rude to make personal remarks."

"In my defense, Victor has never tried to kill me," Alice shot back, feeling a surge of annoyance toward Hatter. How dare he make her show weakness! Especially at a time like this! "Nor would I ever be his murderer." She swallowed, softening her voice. Yelling was getting her nowhere – she had to get him to see sense before it was too late. "Hatter, my memories are shattered. I'm trying to collect the pieces – and I now believe the train impedes me," she added, repressing a shiver. If that grotesque locomotive was indeed the true source of the Ruin. . .well. There was no time to waste in catching up and reducing it down to mere scrap metal. "You must help me – you promised!"

Hatter, however, was unmoved. "Ask the one who 'helps them who help themselves,'" he informed her, turning away. "Whoever that is."

Before Alice could either plead with him or yell at him again, a ceiling girder snapped and fell, crushing the unfortunate hatmaker. It was quickly followed by a rain of bits and bobs from all over the domain – one of Dormy's sleepy teapots, a pounding fist from March's domain, half a factory sign with the letters still glowing bright pink. . . . Alice shielded her head from the onslaught, turning to run back the way they'd come – only to find it already blocked. "Oh, _perfect. . . ._"

The air filled with the smell of tea leaves as lava-hot liquid began to flood the factory, pouring in from whatever remained of Smelling & Regurgitating. Alice tried to climb the pile of junk forming in front of her to escape, only to be chased back down by a piece of checkered floor nearly taking off her head. She glared at the hidden remains of the Hatter as the tea lapped at her boots. "Very pithy," she spat. "He deserved to die."

"_I knew that goblet was filled with poison. I could have saved him. I didn't. Because I felt he deserved to die."_

Alice bit her lip as Victor's voice echoed across her memory, talking about his experience with Lord Barkis. Victor had admitted that to her as a secret shame of his, and she'd reassured him that he'd done nothing wrong in her eyes by letting the nobleman kill himself. The bastard was a thieving murderer the world was better off without. Was Hatter really in the same league? He _had_ helped her figure out at least a little of what was going on. . .but then, on her last visit here, he'd tried to murder her, and performed horrific experiments on his friends! Except – well, she'd killed him, and March and Dormy had more than gotten their own back. And they'd all been guests at the tea party the night of the fire – it had been their screams that had helped her wake up before the flames reached her room. . . .

Unfortunately, she didn't have time to regret her moment of derision for long – the tea was now at her neck. She kicked her feet and paddled her arms, trying frantically to keep above water, but it just kept rising and rising, faster than she could swim. _Is this how it ends?_ she wondered as the liquid covered her head. _With me drowning in tea – in ignorance?_

Then everything went black.


	6. Seeking Out A Mangled Mermaid

Chapter 6

September 13th, 1875

Billingsgate, London's East End, England

7:32 A.M.

"Alice!"

Victor hugged himself as he stumbled through the maze of docks and warehouses. It was a miserable morning to be out and about. The sky was shrouded in clouds as black as midnight, and the rain was pelting down, drenching him in cold and wet. His teeth felt ready to chatter right out of his skull. _Why didn't I borrow Alice's umbrella before coming here?_ he thought, rubbing his arms to try and force some warmth into them. _At least then I wouldn't be soaked on top of everything else._

Well, it was too late for such regrets now. He blinked the water out of his eyes as he turned in a circle, checking every nook and cranny he could see. "Alice!" he called again, stretching his voice to its limit. "Where are you?"

No answer. Victor took a moment to rest under the overhanging roof of a nearby building, trying to ignore the way his stomach kept churning. _Almost a week with no sign of her,_ he thought, watching the rain pour down in sheets. _Even with things being as bad as they are, how did she manage to get herself so lost? Maybe I shouldn't have scared Witless off – she was my only lead to what happened. . . ._ He wiped his face with a soggy sleeve. _Dr. Bumby's not going to be pleased with me._

Then again, it wasn't like he was in the doctor's good books right now anyway. Dr. Bumby was probably the only person in the Home taking Alice's disappearance worse than himself. With each day that passed without her returning, the psychiatrist got angrier and angrier. And the first person he was liable to take it out on was Victor. Victor groaned as he recalled the litany of sharp words they'd thrown at each other over the past week. Their argument yesterday had been one of the worst:

"_You _still_ haven't found her? I thought you cared about the girl!" Dr Bumby snarled as Victor reluctantly reported his latest failure. "Don't you know the danger she's in? If she's just wandering off to Wonderland, instead of being guided there under controlled conditions, there's no saying _what_ might happen to her. She needs to be found before all my hard work is undone!"_

"_I do understand, sir!" Victor replied, clapping his hands in frustration. "I'm just as worried about her as you are! I'm t-terrified that she's going to turn up d-d-ddd–"_

"_Oh come now, Master Van Dort – a man of your particular delusions should be able to say the word 'dead!'" Bumby snapped, slamming a fist on his desk. "Why are you so worried about finding her in that condition, anyway? According to you, all that means is that she's going to be walking around with blue skin!"_

_Victor's jaw dropped, but only for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed almost to slits. "Sir! You know very well that I don't believe the dead can get up and walk whenever they like!" he snapped back, folding his arms. "If she's d-died, then I'm going to be dealing with a corpse, just like the rest of you! One that just l-lies there and. . .and. . . ."_

_He stopped, unable to continue. The image conjured up by his brain was much too sad. Dr. Bumby's face softened slightly. "My apologies, Victor – the stress is getting to me," he said, leaning back in his chair. "But there are worse fates for her than death lurking out there, if we can't get her back into my pos – my _care_ soon. We're at the very edges of a major breakthrough regarding her Wonderland. She's almost ready to finally let go of the past and embrace the future! To see all that time and effort go down the drain because she's lost control of her mind. . . ." He clucked his tongue. "It would be tragic."_

All that time and effort of yours might be what's responsible for her having lost her mind, you horrible man,_ Victor thought, but bit back the impulse to actually speak his mind. Things were unpleasant enough between them already. "Dr. Bumby, this would be so much easier if you'd let me involve the police," he pleaded instead, clasping his hands under his chin. "I don't understand why you don't think them necessary."_

"_Victor, you must have seen the local officers in action," Dr. Bumby said, rolling his eyes. "They're all nothing more than incompetent brutes. The East End is not the favored beat for policemen of any intelligence. All they would do is throw Alice into a cell and traumatize her more. Do you _want_ her to retreat back into catatonia?"_

"_No, of course not," Victor mumbled, looking at his shoes. He had to admit, Bumby had a point. He _had_ seen the local bobbies in action – gossiping over greasy lunches, taking bribes from pimps and prostitutes, and beating up those unfortunate criminals who didn't pose much of a threat to them. Hardly the sort of police force you wanted to put your trust in. But. . . . "I'm only one man," he reminded the doctor. "I really can't do this on my own. I need help. Wouldn't the risk of a few hours in a cell be worth knowing she was safe and sound?"_

"_I wouldn't expect someone not trained in my field of expertise to understand how delicate her mental state really is," Bumby replied, waving a hand dismissively. "Especially not someone whose own mental state is rather in question. Besides, I can assure you that you're not my only searcher. I've built up quite a web of connections in this neighborhood, and I'm putting them to good use. I'd just expected you to be the most competent, given your _affection_ for Alice." _

_Did he really have to say "affection" like it was a dirty word? "Still, sir, it's been almost a week," Victor pointed out. "We can't keep this matter from the police forever. It could reflect badly on the Home if they hear about this from someone else."_

_Bumby sighed. "An unfortunate truth," he allowed. "If she's not returned in the next couple of days, I suppose we must allow those layabouts to do their duty." Then he glowered at Victor. "But I'm hoping you'll prove yourself useful and find her before then!"_

_Well, Doctor, it looks like I'll be getting that help after all,_ Victor thought as the memory dissolved. _I'm sorry I wasn't useful enough, I really am._ He pushed his limp hair back from his forehead. _Ugh_ _– why did things have to go downhill like this? And so _quickly_? I thought she was doing well! No need for pills, or extra sessions, or anything else like that. Maybe she saw things, but she knew what was real! She could function among society, even if it wasn't inclined to acknowledge her. I was even hoping that, maybe, once I'd either exhausted Bumby's patience or found a job and a place of my own, we could leave the Home together. . . . _

Now there was a happy daydream. The pair of them with their luggage in the front foyer, saying their goodbyes. . .the children making smart remarks coupled with grudging admissions that they would be missed (if only for their entertainment value). . .Dr. Bumby shaking their hands and wishing them Godspeed even as he muttered under his breath how he was _sure_ he could still "cure" them given more time. . .then the pair of them opening the big double doors and picking up their suitcases. . .Victor offering his arm to Alice and her taking it with a smile as they proceeded down the steps and toward the cab that would take them to a new life. . . . Victor sighed deeply. Right now, he wanted that to be reality more than anything else in the world – but he knew deep in his heart it probably wouldn't have come true even when Alice had been at her best. "Normal" men and women simply didn't live together so closely without some sort of chaperone unless they were married or wanted to be called nasty names by the rest of the populace (even if some of them were doing the same, the hypocrites). He and Alice already had enough of the latter from the rest of the East End, and he didn't dare ask Alice to marry him. He'd seen how horribly things went when other people tried to marry him off – how much worse would him actually _proposing_ go? Besides, he knew that Alice didn't – couldn't – feel the same way about him. She was brave and vital, a warrior in her own mind, and he – he was the rich man's son who'd never suffered a day in his life before the incident with Emily. They were just too different.

Even with all that, though, his heart couldn't help but hope. She was his best friend, after all – that he knew for certain. Perhaps, one day, her feelings would deepen much like his? One day after all this madness had been chased from her mind? He closed his eyes and pictured her as she'd been shortly before "radical treatments" had seemingly stripped away her sanity. Those bright eyes, like glowing emeralds. . .that dark hair, falling in tangled waves to her shoulders. . .those pink lips, so often home to a sly smirk. . .and, rarely, that more genuine smile she seemed to give to him and him alone. . . .

He shook his head hard, dismissing the image. _Stop that,_ he scolded himself._ You do not have time to get lost in romantic daydreams. You need to find Alice._ His shoulders slumped. _If she's even findable at this point._

The main trouble was, Alice seemed to be a master at giving people the slip. Most of the residents of the East End he'd accosted for information hadn't been able to help him at all. And those who _had_ seen her hadn't given him promising reports. Like Mr. Hardwicke, the local butcher, who'd said Alice had wandered by his stall and regarded him suspiciously:

"_Accused me of wanting to eat her, then asked me why I didn't season my own pig parts. Before I could ask what in the devil's name she was going on about, she grabbed something invisible off the counter, said it seemed a serviceable grinder indeed, then ran around the chopping block and off behind our little shack. Didn't see where she went after that. Sorry, Master Van Dort. Fresh pork pie? Guarantee it's all meat!" _

And the owner of the Brann's Beans coffee shop, who'd complained that Alice had caused quite a mess in his store:

"_Yelled at me 'I won't be boiled today, Dormouse!' and then proceeded to smash two of my teapots! I tried to order her out, but she declared she wouldn't leave without 'the Hatter's arms,' whatever _that_ means. So I threw her two old loaves of bread I had in the display and told her 'here, you win, now get lost!' She ran outside, dumped them in a nearby garbage bin – bloody waste of good food! – and was off again. Haven't a clue where she is now, and I don't care either. And unless you're here to pay for the damage she did. . . ."_

And the Scottish factory worker he'd bumped into, who'd told Victor he'd had to stop Alice from running into the steel mill where he worked:

"_She gave me a look and said she would have the Hatter's legs no matter what I did. Damned if I know what she meant – thought maybe she worked in one of those shops and the mercury had gotten to her head – but she didn't protest when I turned her round back toward the street. Funny, though – the way she was running, all stops and starts, it was like she was avoiding something trying to crush her. No, she vanished after she rounded the corner. Why should I follow her? I'm not her keeper."_

Add all that to what Witless had told him, and the implications were clear as daylight: Alice was so lost in the depths of her mind that she had completely forgotten she was even in London – and she was close to getting herself killed because of it. _I guess all I can be thankful for is that she hasn't yet tried attacking anything with the ability to fight back._

He opened his eyes and looked around again, trying to figure out where he should go from here. He was over by the Billingsgate docks today in his attempts to locate Alice, prompted into action by an almost-sleepless night punctuated by the occasional heart-racing nightmare. The horrible weather and early hour meant that the area was largely deserted – just a few sailors unloading their catches, and some warehouse men chatting about this and that. None of them paid much attention to Victor, which he considered a blessing. Every last one of them was built like a professional boxer. It made Victor feel – uneasy, to say the absolute least.

He abandoned his shelter and started wandering through the rain again, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of his friend. He and Alice didn't usually come this way when they went on walks together – in fact, Victor could only recall them visiting twice. Being here now, picking his way through the tangle of crates and nets, was a good reminder as to why. Not only were the docks full of the kind of people who could snap him like a twig, the entire place stank of sweat, grime, and of course fish. On their first visit, he'd wondered if they might see any of his father's workers – not that he expected any of them to recognize him, but he'd thought it might be nice to see the familiar logo of Van Dort Fish on their crates. Alice had told him that he'd better hope they didn't – all the fish that came from this reach of the Thames were just short of lethal. "It's so polluted that you can't get anything edible out of it – or, at least, you shouldn't," she'd declared, making a face at a pile of smelt. "But then again, perhaps some people have grown to like the taste of sewage." If he hadn't already hated the taste of seafood, Victor would have given it up right there and then.

Still, it was an area he hadn't searched before – and Alice, in her current state, was liable to wander anywhere. _Although I hope she's kept enough of her mind _not_ to come down here,_ Victor thought, just catching himself from tripping on a net. Scowling, he shook his foot free of the tangled ropes, sending out a little spray of slime. _Ugh, how on earth can Father _enjoy_ coming to places like these? Though I doubt even he would like this harbor_ –

"Well well, will you look at this! A swell, wandering round our lovely docks! What brings you down to Billingsgate, kind sir?"

Victor froze, then – with extreme reluctance – turned around to face the speaker. One of the burliest men he'd ever seen was standing behind him, with arms as big as tree trunks and a voice as gruff as a bulldog's. He regarded Victor with a rather nasty smile. "Not often we see toffs down here," he continued, sauntering forward with that sort of friendly swagger that everyone knows really means someone's going to take a fist to the face soon. "You're far out of your neighborhood, aren't you?"

Victor gulped, then straightened up to his full six feet three inches to see if it would help his nerves. It didn't. "Less than you think," he replied, clamping his hands together to prevent him strangling himself with his tie. "Um – c-could I ask you a question?"

"Why?" the man demanded, all suspicion.

"It concerns a young lady I'm looking for. . . ."

The man burst out laughing. "Oh. The Mangled Mermaid's that way," he said, pointing past Victor's shoulder. "On the other side of the icehouse. Don't cost much to rent a bed."

An unwelcome blush flooded Victor's face. "N-no! I'm not – look, have you seen a woman with dark hair about this length–" he moved his hand along his shoulders "– and bright green eyes? Should be wearing a black-and-white-striped dress with a rather tattered apron?"

The man frowned thoughtfully. "Huh. That sounds like the bird me and Horatio just pulled out of the Thames."

The color promptly drained right back out of his cheeks. "What?! Was she all right?"

"Yeah, and none too grateful either," the man said, scowling. "Would have drowned if it hadn't been for me, but as soon I start talking about how she could thank me, all she does is shove me off and walk away! Would have gone after her, taught her a lesson, but Horatio said she's friends with the madam who owns the Mermaid. Something about her being the bird's old nanny. Little slip of a girl like her ain't worth never being able to hire a decent whore again."

Oh yes – Victor remembered Alice telling him about that, after he'd asked why she hadn't moved in with her old nanny after Rutledge. That had been an awkward conversation – they hadn't been able to look each other in the eye for a hour afterward. Despite passing close to Nanny's place of business twice, Alice had never introduced him – largely because she knew he wouldn't feel comfortable in the Mermaid ("and because I can't guarantee Nanny won't encourage you to have a turn with one of her girls"). But it appeared Victor was going to meet the woman now. "Do you think she might have visited the Mermaid then?" he asked, feeling a little surge of hope.

"She wandered off in that general direction, yeah," the man said with a shrug. "I don't think you'd get anywhere with her, though. Unless she only takes rich boys like yourself."

Despite himself, Victor glared at the man. "She's not a 'woman of the night,' and that's not why I want to find her," he growled.

The man arched an eyebrow at him. "So why _do_ you want to find her, swell?" he asked, his tone indicating that he did not appreciate Victor's look.

Victor shrank back. _Ninny – how many times has Alice told you not to make trouble for yourself on these streets? _"S-she's my friend," he said, swallowing. "That's all." He pulled out his wallet and extracted about half a pound in shillings. "And I'm very grateful for the information, sir," he added, extending the money. _Please, please don't decide it's a better idea to just rob me. . . ._

Luck was with him – the man's face lit up at the sight of the banknotes. He snatched them out of Victor's hand and counted them. "Now, see, if more people were like you, the world would be a better place," he said, now all smiles and goodwill. "Pleasure doing business with you, sir. And good luck finding your bird."

"Thank you." Victor shoved his wallet back in his pocket and hurried off in the direction the fisherman had indicated. Although he certainly didn't like what the man had been implying about Alice – his fists clenched as he thought about the sort of gratitude the lout had no doubt been expecting from her – he'd given him a lead, and that was worth a few shillings. Well, that and avoiding getting his face caved in by a fist practically as big as his head. _Being a rich man's son in this area is both blessing and curse,_ he thought, passing more barrels and crates that stank of half-rotted fish, eels, and oysters. _You can make friends with money, but you never know when one of those "friends" will want more than what you're willing to give. . .fortunate I've yet to run into my own Witless! Oh, poor Alice – if only I'd known earlier. I would have helped you._

The icehouse wasn't far from where he'd met the fisherman, easily visible in the gloom by the lights near the entrance. Three workers were lingering outside, but none of them seemed to notice him – two were standing by the water chatting, and the third, perched on a crate, appeared to be asleep. Stepping as lightly as possible, Victor crept up and peered through the open door. Through a soft white haze, he could see huge blocks of ice stacked in small columns and stocky pyramids, with just enough space left between them to form slippery paths through the building. Slippery, chilly paths – even standing outside, he could feel the cold seeping into his clothes. _Goodness – if I go in there, will I end up being used to cool someone's icebox?_

On the other hand, as cold as it was, the icehouse was at least dry. He turned and looked around the side of the building. Darkness loomed up before him, wet and menacing. Victor shuddered. He was tired of stumbling through that gloomy mess. Better a brief trip to the Arctic than plunging back into the night that would not end. With one last glance at the idling workers, he slipped inside.

He almost immediately regretted his decision as the cold attacked him, taking full advantage of his wet clothes. _Maybe it would have been better to risk the other way,_ he thought, hurrying through the maze of ice and avoiding little drips falling from the ceiling. _Still, I made my choice – and with luck, going through instead of around will get me to the Mermaid quicker. _He hugged himself as a particularly hard shiver racked his body._ So long as I don't trip and shatter myself on the floor. _

The path through the bottom part of the warehouse ended at some inconveniently-stacked ice near a flight of stairs. Victor shoved the nearest block with his shoulder to move it, only to find himself frozen to the oversized cube instead. A quick yank freed him, although not without tearing his suit. He examined the damage critically – no worse than when he'd torn his rehearsal suit running from Emily. _Though this time, I won't be able to rely on a friendly spider to mend it for me. Ah well, maybe it makes me look less like a swell – and less like a target._

He tried kicking the ice to get it to move, but only managed to nearly bowl himself over and crack his head open on the floor. With nowhere else to go, and no way of clearing his path, he started up the steps. _Goodness, how do men work in these places? _he wondered, warming his hands with his breath. _I suppose it's nice in summer, but in winter. . .what on earth is that?_

He stopped midway up the stairs, staring at the block of ice next to him. Beady eyes peered out from behind a screen of white frost, and he could trace the lines of a gaping mouth in the translucent depths. "It's a fish!" he gasped aloud. "One of those deep-sea ones, I think. . .how'd it get caught in there?" He started to reach out toward the cube, then thought better of it. He didn't want his skin to suffer the same fate as his sleeve. "Well. . .guess whoever receives that one is getting a free meal." Shaking his head, he continued up.

The upper level of the icehouse was little more than a glorified walkway, containing further stacks of ice and – to Victor's immense relief – a door to the outside. He darted out onto a tiny platform, the chilly air of early morning feeling almost like a heat wave after the icehouse. Rubbing his hands together to get his blood moving again, he looked around. Most of his vision was taken up by the back of some mysterious structure (probably just another warehouse) and the piles of garbage lying at its base. But directly in front of him, not far off, was another building – this one with glowing windows and a bright yellow sign. Victor hurried down the steps and through the little alley formed by the towering brick walls, nearly tripping in his haste. Could it be –

It was. Up close, the words on the sign were unmistakable: _The Mangled Mermaid_. And hanging right next to it, as if to dispel any possible lingering doubts, was an appropriately desiccated-looking half-woman, half-fish. Despite the horrible imagery shoved in his face, Victor smiled. Perhaps his journey was finally at its end!

Then the flames burst from the far side of the roof.


	7. The Iciest of Receptions

Chapter 7

September 13th, 1875

Billingsgate, London's East End, England

7:32 A.M.

"I'll get what you and your floozies owe me, Miss Ladybird! See if I don't!"

"Maybe ya noticed I'm not pissing me drawers at the prospect!"

Alice smirked as she wandered into the space Jack Splatter had recently vacated. Nan Sharpe, former nanny to the Liddells and current madam of the Mangled Mermaid, was as feisty as ever it seemed – especially when it came to arguing over money. It would be good to talk to her again – they hadn't spoken in far too long. She waved at the window Nanny (as Alice still thought of her) was currently occupying, hoping to grab the woman's attention without attracting other, unwanted eyes. She'd already had quite enough of those in her short time back on London's streets. _Ten minutes – at the absolute most – and already I've been propositioned twice and threatened with a beating once,_ she thought, rolling her eyes._ Oh, Billingsgate, don't ever change._

Nanny stopped glaring at Splatter's back and looked down. Her eyes immediately brightened. "Alice Liddell!" she said, now all warmth and good spirits. "You'll make a nice change. Bring your disheveled self up here!"

"I'd intended to," Alice called back, rubbing the chill out of her arms. Ugh – she'd hoped to have a chance to dry off after escaping drowning in the Thames, not get wetter. Bloody rain. "But there's some rather insulting types standing guard over your front door." _Much like the one who pulled me from the river – though I suppose it's a little ironic that I ended up going to the same place he intended to take me of my own free will. Closest "safe" place I know of, though – I'm not walking back to Houndsditch in this muck._

"Eh, there always is," Nanny said, leaning on the windowsill. "You just run around the back. Long Tim will let you through, no questions asked. Up to you to get around the lot inside, though. I'll meet you up here."

With that, she withdrew her head and disappeared back inside her room. Alice couldn't help a little smile. Good old Nanny. _It's a good thing she was off visiting her sister when the fire happened,_ she thought, heading for the back entrance. _I don't know how I would have managed my first few weeks here without her guidance. Rather depressing that she's been reduced from teaching upper-middle-class young ladies French and music to selling companionship to laborers and thieves, but she seems happy enough with her new position. When Jack Splatter's not bothering her, that is. _She rolled her eyes again. _"Get what you owe me" – you're owed nothing but a punch in the face, you ugly leech. But I suppose you and Nanny will be on speaking terms again soon enough. You always have been before, after all._

She rounded the corner to see Long Tim, Nanny's loyal bodyguard, leaning against the wall, facing away from her. She frowned a little in concern. She and Tim weren't precisely friends, but they did talk on occasion. That was probably enough to warrant an inquiry about his health. "Long Tim? Are you all right?"

Long Tim slowly turned toward her, dragging his feet with every step. Alice's eyes went wide. Buried in Tim's guts was a cleaver, coated in blood and gore. Tim lifted a shaky finger to point through the open door. "Splat," he choked out. "Splat–"

The second syllable never came. With a final groan, Long Tim collapsed dead on the ground. Alice stared at him, hardly daring to believe it. How could her nanny's personal nobbler be out and out murdered?! He was one of the strongest and most powerful men she knew, capable of knocking out just about anyone with a single punch. . . . _He'd always said he'd die of a social disease,_ her mind whispered, recalling old conversations. _Never dreamed that disease would be named Jack Splatter._

_Splatter!_

Alice bolted into the Mangled Mermaid, her stomach roiling with fear. Splatter had threatened to brain her nanny not three minutes ago, and now – she skidded into the front room. The usual raucous crowd was in attendance – men tossing back watered-down beer and rotgut gin at the bar, women putting themselves on display in the hopes of a few coins, the player piano tinkling out an absurdly merry tune in the corner, and the daily brawl being fought near the stairway. But above all the sounds of men cussing, bottles thumping, and fists punching, Alice would swear she heard the wails of a woman in pain. She raced up the stairs, heedless of her legs' complaints. _Oh Nanny, please be all right!_

The upstairs hall, where the girls plied their ancient trade, looked deserted – the busiest hours of the night were over, leaving the remaining stragglers to toss back a few drinks downstairs before staggering off to their jobs. But Nanny's door, right across from the stairs, was open – and inside, Alice saw a scene that chilled her heart. Her nanny, a woman built like a brick privy, was lying on the floor, one eye blackened and hands held up in terrified supplication. Jack Splatter loomed over her, fists clenched. "You won't give me what I want, I'll burn this dump of yours down to the ground!" he snarled, kicking Nanny in the ribs.

Sheer terror for the one person she had left from her life before the fire caused Alice to do the very thing she'd always warned Victor against – get involved in one of Splatter's altercations. "Go away!" she demanded as she stalked into the room, although her voice wasn't nearly as strong or steady as she'd have liked. "She's done no harm!"

Splatter turned around, eyes glinting with cold malice. He regarded Alice for a moment as if she was nothing more than an insect, to be squashed beneath his boot and then forgotten. Then he smirked. "She hurt me feelings," he said causally, as if he and Nanny had had the merest friendly disagreement.

Then, with a single swipe of his arm, he knocked the lamp off Nanny's makeup table.

The light bounced across the room, glass shattering as it landed against the far wall. Alice threw up her hands to guard against any flying shards, then started toward the spreading puddle of oil, fear gripping her heart. The flames were already licking across the floor – she had to smother them before –

She saw the punch coming too late to block or dodge. Splatter's fist landed solidly on her temple, causing an explosion of pain in her head. She collapsed to the floor as he walked away, the world fading to black as the smell of burning wood filled her nose and old familiar voices echoed in her ears:

"_Out like a snuffed candle. Sleeps the sleep of the just."_

"_Help us, Alice!"_

"_Fire, Alice! Fire!"_

Fire. . . .

The heat increased, wrapping her tight in its grip like a python with a luckless mouse. But now there was also motion – a blazingly fast fall that whipped her skirts up against her waist. Even behind her eyelids, she could see a orange glow that streaked across the sky as she fell. A human meteor, that's what she had become. Tumbling to who knew where while the Mangled Mermaid burned. . . .

Her speed slackened abruptly, an invisible hand halting her in midair before lowering her gently to the ground. Her boots sizzled against the earth as a bitingly cold wind blew her hair against her face. Alice put up a hand to brush the strands back –

Wait. Cold?

She opened her eyes, blinking to clear her vision as the last of the warmth surrounding her trickled away. She was standing near the edge of a vast glacier, with large walls and columns of blue-green ice jutting out from the densely-packed snow. Below her, dark ocean waves lapped at towering icebergs in the shape of never-to-crash breakers. Above her, the night sky twinkled with millions of stars. There was also a crescent moon, brilliantly white, with a face carved into its curve. A cigarette dangled from its rocky lips, and from that trailed long glowing stripes of green smoke, which lit up the sky in jagged lines. And there was still the breeze, nipping at her exposed arms and face as it sent her hair streaming out behind her, her beloved blue dress little help against its chill. It was like she'd suddenly been flung into the highest reaches of the Arctic.

She loved it.

She spread her arms to encompass the ice and snow, relishing in the freezing temperatures so unlike the blazing inferno she'd left. Deep inside, she still feared for Nanny's safety, and even spared a worried thought for the customers down in the Mermaid's bar. But she couldn't help but be glad to be out of all that. To be as far from fire as one could possibly be. "Wonderful," she whispered, watching her breath turn to white fog as it passed her lips.

Then she smirked. "No – _Tundraful_."

* * *

Tundraful

"Oh, poor thing – running the caucus race didn't do much to save you from the cold, did it?"

Alice grimaced as she passed the frozen lory, its insides gnawed and shredded by passing predators. Tundraful wasn't as nice as she'd originally thought. True, all the running around she was doing made the cold bearable (though part of her longed for the long-sleeved dress of the Hatter's Domain). And she'd take ice floes and freezing winds over rivers of lava and ash-filled skies, like those in the Land of Fire and Brimstone, any day. But in her short time here, she'd already been dragged into a painful battle with more of those disgusting Ruin – including the newest member of the family, the hulking three-faced Menacing Ruin – discovered that her apparent destination, a ship in a bottle, was miles away, and been forced to dodge the smelly breath of a Yeti determined to send her sailing into the sea. _Not ten minutes in, and I've had my life threatened twice. Why can't I ever just find a place where there's nothing to fight and no hazards to worry about? _she thought grumpily. _Oh, yes, my mind hates me and wants me to die._

Past the bird was another round-faced cave, this one containing an ice slide. Alice plopped herself down, hissing as the chill penetrated her stockings and skirt like a thousand needles. Fortunately, the slipperiness of the slope made for a short ride down to the lower chamber, where, of all things, what looked like a chunk of Looking-Glass Land awaited her. The floor was checked red and white under a clear layer of ice, and directly in front of her were a pair of Knight statues carved out of the frozen wall. They stood straight and proud over a little stage of sorts, the loyal guards to – "Is that my old hobby horse?"

Alice jogged up to it. It was indeed her old toy, complete with braided yellow rope mane, a faded coat of white paint, and the little blue wheels at the end of the stick. Her hands closed around it as memory filled her mind:

"_Yah! You won't terrorize this village any longer, you wicked giantess! Take THIS!" POW! ". . .Oops."_

"_What on earth was – ALICE! What in BLAZES did you do to the wall?!"_

Alice couldn't help a giggle. "Oh, Papa, I didn't mean to put a huge hole in the plaster," she murmured, stroking the horse's muzzle lovingly. "How was I to know my simple wooden horse was stronger than your fabled brick?" Her lips twisted in a thoughtful smile. "Hmm. . .I wonder if you'd be just as effective against those barriers I use Hatter's bomb on. . . ."

She didn't have long to ponder the question, however. The sound of shattering tile and ice caught her ear, and she turned to see – _Oh, HELL._

It didn't look much like the monsters that swam in the fast-flowing rivers of the Wonderland Woods, nor the ones that frequented the boiling lava streams of the Land of Fire and Brimstone. This creature had a stockier body, blind white eyes, a glowing lure dangling from its nose (like the anglerfish she'd seen in Papa's encyclopedia of sea life), and a huge mouth full of teeth the size of railroad spikes. But it was a fish, and it had legs, and it looked ready to eat her, which meant it could only be one thing. "Snark," Alice growled, blood running hot and fast.

The Ice Snark hissed at her, frost streaming from its jaws. Alice hefted her new weapon, feeling the familiar weight straining her arms. "I nearly knocked my nanny senseless with this," she snarled. "I can take you!"

The Snark wasn't impressed, judging by the way it tried to leap on her. Alice dodged out of the way and swung the Hobby Horse straight into its face. The fish squealed in pain, then retaliated by spraying her with a lungful of cold mist. Alice gasped as it froze around her in a icy shell. "Oh, that's not fair!" she yelled. "I don't even have the Ice Wand this go-round to return the favor!"

Fortunately, pulling her little butterfly trick seemed sufficient to free her from her prison (_Emily, have I thanked you for being a part of Victor's life lately?_). She dodged another snap from the Snark's jaws, then slammed the Horse into the top of its skull. The Snark toppled over onto its side as blood sprayed from its wounds. Alice raised the Horse as high above her head as she could, then brought it down with a mighty smash, rocking the cave and reducing her foe into nothing more than the main ingredient in fish and chips. _But why have one enemy when you can have four?_ she thought bitterly, watching as more Ice Snarks broke through the floor to avenge their fallen brother-in-arms. "I'm not afraid of you!" she yelled, swinging the Hobby Horse in front of her like a mace. "I'll smash you all into patties and drag your frozen corpses to Van Dort Fish! I promised Victor I'd let his father see if you look good in cans!"

To her surprise and delight, the mention of the cannery seemed to put the monsters on edge, backing away from her advance. Alice took full advantage of their fear to launch a devastating attack, beating them down with the Hobby Horse before fileting them with the Vorpal Blade. A couple tried to fight back, nipping and chomping at her elbows, but she retaliated with a thorough seasoning of pepper before caving in their skulls. After just three minutes, there was nothing left of the Snarks beyond blood splatters and bits of fin and scales. Alice grinned as she stroked her Horse's muzzle, now tinted a rich crimson. "Oh, we're going to have all _sorts_ of fun together," she whispered as three icicles, shaken loose from their moorings by the fearsome battle, toppled from the ceiling, providing her with a convenient path out of the chamber. "I can just _feel_ it."

* * *

Coming to this out of the way iceberg was proving more profitable than Alice had thought.

The obvious bounty, of course, was the treasure trove of golden teeth she'd spotted floating off its far shore (still such a strange currency, but being able to make her weapons more powerful wasn't an opportunity she was going to pass up). But as she entered the cave that time and nature had carved into the iceberg's mountain-like top, she saw another gift waiting for her – a glittering butterfly floating on a ledge just above her head. Grinning, she took care of the guarding Snark with her Hobby Horse – oh, it felt so good to just beat one of those wretched fish until it stopped moving – then leapt up and gave the memory a tap.

_With a series of little wet splats, the fish flopped onto the docks. Alice wrinkled her nose as the pile in front of them grew, wriggling bodies sliding down the sides to slap their tails weakly against the water-stained wood. "And to think that these ugly little creatures will be headed for someone's dinner table," she commented, watching the fishermen scoop up their catch and load them into a waiting cart. "I wonder how long it'll take them to get those to the markets and canneries?"_

"_If they're good at their job, not long at all," Victor told her as the cart hurried away to the nearby icehouse. Another net disgorged its contents onto the dock, splattering slime and loose scales everywhere. Alice scowled as a glob landed on her apron. __**"Even packed in ice, fish goes bad quickly – at least, that's what Father tells me," **__he continued, noticing the mess and offering his handkerchief. __**"That's why he wanted to get into the canning business. He says I'll be in charge of it all one day."**__ He frowned at the slowly-disintegrating mountain of smelt, trout, and bass before them as she cleaned her dress, twiddling his fingers. __**"I'm n-not eager for that day to come, to be honest."**_

And with that, the docks faded, as if pushed out of existence by Victor's reluctance to take up the mantle of cannery king. In their place was a round wall of ice, marked with the head of a horse. Alice shattered it with the Hobby Horse as it implicitly bid and headed outside, musing on the memory. _That was our first visit to Billingsgate, wasn't it? Yes, I remember – that was the visit where we _didn't_ talk that much about Nanny. It was all about Van Dort Fish that time._ She sighed._ Poor Victor – for all your talk about maybe finding some of your father's workers and getting a little taste of home, I think you were secretly pleased not to see that logo. It meant not thinking about what your father insisted you do with your life._

It was quite annoying, in her opinion, that both of Victor's parents seemed so dissatisfied with the son they had. She reserved her especial hatred for Nell – that awful, cold-hearted lickspittle – but William was not immune from her ill feelings. Perhaps he didn't try to force Victor to go to parties where he didn't feel comfortable, or complain about his son's inability to impress the elite, but – well, the man was obviously blinder than the proverbial bat if he thought Victor was going to be a good businessman. Her friend was artistic, shy, and retiring – hardly qualities valued by men of industry. He lacked that necessary ruthlessness such people needed to deal with incompetent workers and dangerous competitors alike. Yes, he'd picked up some all-too-necessary cynicism living in Whitechapel, but Alice could see Victor was at heart still just a sweet boy who wanted to please people. _Not_ someone you wanted going up against those who would like to see your business fall under their control, or just fail entirely. Maybe he'd make a decent accountant – Victor had mentioned he knew quite a bit about balancing ledgers thanks to lots of practice in the family fish shop – but an owner? No.

Not to mention Victor despised fish in all its forms. Alice giggled as she remembered the first time Bumby had served fish for dinner. Victor had looked at his plate, and then, with extreme politeness, asked if he could be excused. What had followed was what had to have been a full minute of staring from everyone else at the table. Nobody had been able to believe that Victor (who, despite his skinny frame, had a _very_ healthy appetite) was actually refusing food. The children had eventually taken advantage of the situation to devour his portion along with their own, but the shock had lasted throughout the rest of the meal. Alice had tracked him down afterward and asked what on earth he'd been thinking. "I'm sorry, Alice – I don't mean to insult either your or Dr. Bumby's culinary skills," he'd apologized. "But – well, the fact is, growing up, my family ate some form of seafood – usually the freshest examples of whatever had come to the cannery – every _day_. Supper was a constant parade of fish – and often lunch and tea involved the leftovers of the previous day. Father considered it good advertisement for the business. I don't know _why_ – perhaps he thought people were looking through the windows watching us eat." He'd made a face then, chewing on his lower lip. "If the idea was to get me used to running a cannery, I'm afraid it's backfired on him – I've grown to _hate_ the taste of fish. I'll eat it if I have no other choice, and I still enjoy some forms of shellfish, but – honestly, between the meal tonight and going hungry, I'd rather go hungry." After that, if Alice knew Bumby was going to serve fish for a meal, she'd warned Victor in advance so he could buy his own lunch or dinner. No sense in making her friend suffer if he had the money to avoid it.

Speaking of money. . .after taking a moment to shrink and reveal the path hovering above the water's surface, Alice carefully navigated her way over to the glittering golden teeth. She quickly gathered them up, dropping them into whatever other-dimensional pocket also kept her weapons safe. _Hollow Yves will be pleased,_ she thought, glancing as far as she could in the direction of the little skull that held her apron bow in place. _Who would have thought part of my dress would be alive? Still, he's useful and no mistake._ She summoned her Hobby Horse again, admiring its new crimson metal face and red-and-white checked mane. It was a little heavier now as well, but that just meant it packed more of a wallop. _The Pepper Grinder changed its face too when I paid him last, and I swear the Vorpal Blade feels lighter in my hand. . .I wonder what all these deadly implements of mine will look like once I've finally satisfied Yves's passion for dentistry? _She ran a finger along the curves of the Horse. _Hopefully I'll get a chance to find out before this trip is over._

Putting away the now less-than-innocent toy, Alice found her gaze going back up to the sky. The moon was still there, still smoking away, creating more bright sinuous blue-green ribbons to light the night sky. Between them, the distant stars glinted like diamonds wrapped in dark velvet. And at the very edge of the horizon rested a streak of lighter blue, heralding a dawn that might never actually come. _If only I had paint, canvas, and some time to spare,_ Alice thought wistfully. _This would make the most beautiful picture. . .of course, I bet Victor could capture it better than I ever could. He's quite the artist._ She smiled._ I bet he'd love it here. Maybe not the cold, and the poor frozen animals, but the sky? He'd be awestruck, I'm sure of it. If only I could bring him here. . . ._

_Is that the second or third time I've wished that?_

Alice frowned to herself. She had been thinking of Victor a lot lately on her travels. Yes, he had his fair share of the memories, but she didn't waste any further thought on Witless or Bumby or even Nanny when theirs showed up. Victor just stuck in her head, like gum on a shoe. It amazed her a little just how much she genuinely _wanted_ him to be here. To show him her Wonderland – or, rather, Wonderland as it _should_ be. She didn't want him to see the wrecked parts, the bits reflecting the way her mind was falling to pieces around her. But the quiet places, like the unspoiled Vale or the icebergs of Tundraful. . .that would be a treat. She could practically feel him by her side now, his hand in hers as they gazed up at the magnificent panorama spread out before them. It would be so nice to be able to while away a few hours here, wrapped in a snuggly blanket, just talking and looking. . . .

But – that wasn't like her at all. Wonderland was supposed to be her private retreat, her home away from home. The place she went when she wanted to escape the real world and everyone in it. The only other person she had ever really wanted to bring here was Lizzie. And she'd never thought of Victor like a brother. He was a – a friend. A kind, understanding, gentle. . . .

She shook her head rapidly._ Wasting time again,_ she scolded herself. _That Infernal Train is still out there, still spreading Ruin, and you're stuck on Northern Lights and pale young men who belong solely to reality. Your job is to learn more about the train, track it down, and stop it from spreading more Ruin across your mind! Unless you _want_ to keep fighting legions of sludge monsters. . . ._

The shudder that went down her spine indicated that she didn't. Nodding firmly to herself, she looked out across the water. The ship in a bottle was almost within reach now, and she could see a familiar figure waving to her from its upper deck. The head of a young cow, bedecked with a rather ridiculous admiral's hat, perched upon a turtle's shell and flippers, and while Alice was too far away to see him properly, she was almost certain there were tears leaking from its beady eyes. "Rather hard to be lost at sea if you can't go anywhere," she mumbled, examining his glass prison. "But still, you're the only one with a boat to take me across this frigid ocean, so. . . ." She turned and ran back to the iceberg, preparing to circle around for a better shot at the three stepping stones of ice that would lead her to her goal.

Time to see if the Mock Turtle was doing anything but wailing.

* * *

"Hmm. A fine vessel, if I do say so."

Alice stood just outside the bottle, regarding the ship inside with her hands on her hips. It was a bit small, granted, and its long stint in the cold had covered it with frost and icicles. But it looked sturdy enough, with wide sails and plenty of canon. And besides, any boat that had her friend Gryphon's head and claws carved into its prow probably had luck on its side.

_On the other hand, being manned by the Mock Turtle might negate that,_ she thought, her gaze shifting to the ship's apparent owner. Mock gazed back at her anxiously, drumming his flippers on the ship's side. _He's a decent enough sort, I suppose, but I wouldn't put him in charge of anything that floats, not even a leaf. I've seen what happens when you do. _She shuddered as it all came back to her – navigating fearsome rapids, plunging over steep drops, just barely avoiding being exploded or shot at or bitten or falling to her doom. . .suddenly she had to resist the urge to use her Hobby Horse on his precious shell._ The whole reason I put you in that train conductor's position is because you weren't any good at being a turtle, mock or otherwise. So why did you abandon your post?_ "Turtle?" she called.

He shook his head and pointed at the glass, mouthing soundless words. Ah – he couldn't hear her through it. Well, she had to seek passage on his boat anyway, so. . . . She examined the bottle, looking for weaknesses. One immediately jumped out at her – a huge crack just above her head, with a hole big enough to climb through. Hauling herself through broken glass was hardly her favorite activity, but she didn't have much of a choice. She jumped and caught the bottom edge, then pulled herself up and through –

And bit back a scream as _something_ leapt from the water and slammed its snout right into the hole after her. Whipping around, she saw what looked like an enormous shark made out of bits of ruined ships, floating in midair as it gnawed at the glass. _So _that's_ what kept skirting the water around me,_ she thought, recognizing the flag that served as the creature's dorsal fin from glimpses caught during her travels across the glacier. _But why try to attack me _now_? You never even looked in my direction before! And how are you even able to fly anyway? Bloody nonsense. . . ._

"You'd better come aboard, Alice," Mock said gloomily, making her turn her head. "We're doomed, of course."

"What? There's no hope then?" Alice asked, although even as she said it she wondered why she was bothering. Of course the answer would be no. The Mock Turtle never had any hope for anything. If he'd been the one to cry the Pool of Tears, it would have been an ocean – and still growing today.

"Oh, there's an infinite amount of hope," Mock returned to her mild surprise, shaking his head as the shark – a Shipwreck Shark, Alice decided – hit the bottle again, a low growl rising from whatever passed for its throat. A second one appeared close to its cousin, scraping its teeth along the side and trying to get them into the crack. "But none for us. Now get up here!"

With a steadily growing number of sharks throwing themselves from the water and crashing into the glass, Alice didn't need a second invitation. She raced to the boat and scrambled up the ladder Mock dropped over the side. "The friend you patterned this vessel on would be most welcome in the flesh right now," she commented as she clambered onto the deck.

Mock sniffled. "Gryphon's dead. I made this ship in his memory."

Alice stared, eyes wide. "Dead?" No, that couldn't be right! She'd brought him back last time, she knew she had! She'd seen him flying over the restored Caterpillar's Plot, looking – looking. . . .

She couldn't remember. It was all faded and fuzzy, like she was peering at the image through a layer of gauze. She couldn't recall the color of his eyes, nor the sound of his voice. His fight with the Jabberwock – his bravest, proudest moment – was little more than an indistinct blur in her mind. Only the memory of him taking his last, gasping breath had any clarity to it._ "Gryphons aren't real, Alice. They're good for nothing more than heraldry. Do you want to always be the damsel in distress?"_ Dr. Bumby had asked her once, and she hadn't, but – she hadn't wanted to give up her friend either –

Another crash and a cracking sound distracted her from that line of thought. She looked around to see a whole school of Shipwreck Sharks slamming their noses against the bottle, covering its surface with webs of fine lines. One had even successfully wedged itself into the hole she'd gone through and was now stretching its mighty jaws toward the side of the boat, snapping like it wanted to eat the very air. "Confounded beasts!" Mock cried, waving his flippers madly. "They want my ship!"

"I think _you're_ more to their taste," Alice said, eyes flicking left and right. _The question is, am I as well?_

"Never!" Mock declared firmly, pressing his flippers to his cheek. "We're almost relatives!"

Despite herself, Alice smirked. She had to call him out on _that_ one. "You're related to _soup_, Admiral."

Mock glared at her. "You don't need to rub it in."

"My apologies, but it does lend credence to the idea that these creatures want a taste of you rather than your vessel."

"Not at all! These sharks devour ships faster than a Snark can eat a baker! It's how they add onto themselves, you see. And I don't want any of them getting Gryphon's head!" he added, shaking a flipper at the shark trying to take a chunk out of the hull.

"Oh!" Well, she supposed that made more sense for creatures so clearly made out of wood. "Still, do you think they'll particularly care if they chew us up along with the deck and masts?"

"No, they wouldn't," Mock said miserably as another shark smashed into the bottle. "It's curtains for us, and no mistake."

Then, out of nowhere, he brightened. "Wait – I've an idea! We'll leave this mayhem and go to Carpenter's show!" he said, waving a flipper toward the sea. "It's better than a gaff. Carpenter promises that which we don't take seriously can't harm us. And if the HMS Gryphon can't get us down to the Deluded Depths, I don't know what ship can!"

The webs spread across the sides of the bottle, reaching over the top with a series of small cricks and creaks. Alice swallowed as she looked at the crack widening just over their heads. "Best dive now, Admiral," she encouraged her friend. "Or the sharks will have us for lunch."

As if to underscore her words, the bottle chose that moment to split in two. The shattered halves plunged into the sea, leaving them at the mercy of the sharks. Fortunately for the stranded pair, the sails immediately caught the steadily-blowing breeze, billowing out and speeding the HMS Gryphon away from the beasts nipping at their heels.

And, to Alice's horror, straight toward a nearby waterfall. She whipped her head around. "Can't you steer this thing?!"

"Steering was an advanced class at our school! I never got a chance to learn!" the Mock Turtle yelled as they flew toward the edge. "Besides, it's the quickest way down to Carpenter's domain! Just hold on!"

Alice clamped her hands onto the starboard side's railing, bile rising in her throat as the freezing spray lashed her face. _Perfect. I should have guessed. Just how many times is this bastard going to try to drown meee– _"EEEEEEAAAAHHHH!"


	8. A Show To Die For

Chapter 8

Deluded Depths

_I. Am never. Getting on. A boat. Again._

Alice winced as she struggled to push herself up off the sand. It felt like every last one of her muscles had been the main attraction in a particularly vicious game of tug-of-war. "Oooow! My body aches all over!" she groaned, finally regaining her feet. "We submerged too quickly!" _And that's not even taking into account that giant shark that sent us smashing into the seabed. What _is_ it with me and crash landings as of late?_

The Mock Turtle, sitting and sobbing in front of a nearby column of rock, didn't even deign to give her a glance. "My ship's a wreck," he wept, wiping his face with a flipper as he surveyed the shattered remains of the HMS Gryphon. "And I am too!"

Alice was tempted to say something about how he was never anything _but_ a wreck, but refrained in favor of making sure she had no broken bones. Wonderland had tried to make up for nearly killing her again with another new dress, she noticed – this one of green and pink fish scales, with dotted stripes running vertically down the sleeves and skirt that glowed faintly in the dim light. She'd also been divested of stockings and boots – _but then again,_ she thought, wiggling her toes in the soft white sand, _I probably don't need them in this particular location._ She brushed a few stubborn bits of dirt from her miniature apron, then looked up. Miles of cloudy midnight-blue sea stretched above her head, obscuring all trace of the sky she'd so adored. For a moment, she wondered how she was breathing so far below the surface – then quickly shoved that thought out of her mind, lest she find herself suddenly dependent on mysterious streams of bubbles and pockets of air to live. She'd had enough of nearly drowning in the Wonderland Woods and the Tower of Water. If she had to go through this again, she'd breathe normally and keep her feet on good old _terra firma_.

The cold currents proved a wondrous salve for her aching joints, and soon she was ready to walk again. She approached Mock with care, examining at their surroundings as she did. Chunks of mast, deck, and hull lay scattered all around them, the battered wood almost torn down to splinters by the unforgiving stone structures they lay on. Alice winced as she caught sight of what remained of the prow. The wooden image of Gryphon's head looked utterly defeated as it lay helplessly on the sand. _A waste of a good ship,_ she thought with a sigh. _And a most unfitting end for something that commemorated one of my dearest friends._ (How _could_ he be dead? He'd once ripped an eye right out of the Jabberwock's skull, hadn't he? That memory was distressingly blurry too. . . . Could a mere "yes" to one of Bumby's questions really have felled such a mighty creature?)_ For once, Mock Turtle, you have a good reason to weep_.

On the other hand, Mock sitting around crying didn't actually help their situation. She needed answers, and he was the only creature around who could give them. "Admirals go down with their ships," she informed him, then frowned. "Or is it captains. . . ." She shrugged. "In any case, I never knew you for a sailor. If memory serves, you were stationmaster of the Looking-Glass Line."

Mock sniffled, hmming as he tried to get his tears under control enough to speak. "Sacked from the railroad, without the option," he finally got out. "'Redundant,' the nitwits said." His ears wiggled with anger. "Never a holiday. Loyal as a bulldog. 'Going in a different direction' my Aunt Fanny – if I had one. Going off the rails more like! Bloody disaster." He wiped his eyes, frowning at a nearby cannon lying dented on the stones. "Now I'm shipless. The old railroad's dead, and this new thing's a monstrosity." He glowered out into the dark ocean, looking as furious as a Mock Turtle could get. "It never runs on time. Engineer's asleep at the switch. And the fuel–"

The anger left his face, replaced by fear. "No! What I don't know about it can't hurt me!" he cried, waving his flippers wildly as if trying to get rid of a pesky insect. "Say no more! Mum's the word! Nod's as good as a wink!"

Well, this at least filled in a few more pieces of the puzzle. Hatter had told her about March and Dormy storming into his factories, going on about a "new regime" and "forgetting the past." Obviously they'd been the ones to fire Mock after tearing their former friend to pieces. But why? Surely even the Infernal Train needed someone to help run it, and the only other candidates she could think of were lying crushed beneath steel girders. "But–"

"Change the subject," Mock cut her off, shaking his head. "We avoid speaking about the thing whose name should not be spoken."

That was the most logical thing Alice had ever heard him say, but it irritated her nonetheless. Yet again she was surrounded by creatures who wanted to talk about everything _but_ saving Wonderland. "Hearing something useful about this new train would make for a change," she grumbled, letting the sarcasm drip off her words.

Mock turned away from her, fresh tears streaming down his muzzle. "You don't respect the suffering of others," he muttered, hat slipping forward to cast his eyes in shadow. "Go ask your questions and smart remarks to Caterpillar! Leave me to my misery."

Something about the way he looked just then – so downtrodden, so exhausted – reminded Alice of Victor on his bad days. Guilt settled like a heavy stone in her stomach. For all his faults and foibles, Mock was a friend. Victor wouldn't approve of her treating him so heartlessly. And being nasty hadn't gotten her anywhere with Hatter either. "I'm sorry, Admiral, really," she apologized, digging a hole in the sand with her toes. "About your getting sacked, and your ship. I wouldn't have let them fire you if I'd known. But I must learn more about what's happening, dangerous as it may be." She put on her best puppy-dog look. "Please – tell me what you know about the train?"

Mock patted his flippers together, reminding her even more of Victor and his fidgety fingers. Damn it, if he kept doing that, she'd want to give him a hug. "I'll just say we've escaped a contaminating corruption," he said, refusing to meet her eyes. "Count yourself lucky to be down here."

That was – ominous. But it wasn't anything she didn't already know. She sighed. "But I don't want to escape. I want to stop it!" she said, trying to reason with him. "I must stop it to save myself – and Wonderland too." Surely he could see the sense in helping to save his home?

He couldn't – or, rather, she suspected he didn't want to. The Mock Turtle had always been a cowardly creature. _Chalk it up to the fact his entire purpose is to end his life in a tureen, _Alice decided. "Nonsense!" Mock declared, his eyes darting all around as if searching for invisible eavesdroppers. "Speak more nonsense. Diversions rule the day! The show must go on, and so on. . . ." He frowned thoughtfully, as if struck by something, and gestured at her with a flipper. "Speaking of shows–"

"We weren't," Alice said flatly, hoping to dissuade him from another tangent.

No luck. "Yes, well, never mind – here's a ticket for the show Carpenter's mounting," he continued, pulling an oversized rectangle of white cardboard out from somewhere in his shell and handing it to her. "Use it."

Alice took the ticket and examined it. There wasn't much to it – just "Totentanz" written in fancy silver lettering across the front, with the "o" replaced by the open jaws of a vicious-looking fish, and an omega symbol like the one she wore around her neck below that. Flipping it over revealed the words "Dreary Lane Theater" in bright red ink on black fish scales. "Is there really time for theater while that Infernal Train–" Mock winced "– sorry – runs wild over Wonderland?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Carpenter says there is. He says that while the train runs free, the best thing we can do is amuse ourselves and not worry about the past." Mock glanced around again, then leaned in closer. "However, if you run an errand for him – or two – or three. . . ."

Ahhh, _this_ was language Alice understood. "Like when I retrieved your shell from the Duchess?" she smirked. "Well then, I'll see what he knows. Thank you, Mock." She glanced back once more at the wreckage of the HMS Gryphon. "And once I've managed to stop this 'contaminating corruption,' I'll see what I can do to help you fix your ship."

Mock blinked, his tears ceasing from sheer surprise. "Really? Your blood _has_ warmed since we last met," he commented.

"Thank the fact that you remind me quite a bit of another very dear friend," Alice said with a smile, patting his flipper. "You stay here – and stay safe, all right?"

"I can do that," Mock promised, cracking a rare smile. "Good luck with the show."

"Thank you," Alice said, grimacing as she recalled how doing favors for the Hatter had ended. "I'll most likely need it."

* * *

The Carpenter was _not_ what Alice had been expecting.

Granted, there were appropriately carpenter-ish things about him – he carried an oversized hammer (which she wished he wouldn't wave about so much – one blow would probably knock her senseless for a month), he wore a pair of workman's overalls and an apron, and he had long iron nails sticking out of the backs of his hands and punched through his left eyebrow, along with a pencil shoved through the top of one ear. But if it hadn't been for those clues, Alice would have never guessed this tall fellow with his arms covered in ink fish skeletons and one leg replaced by a barnacle-encrusted peg had ever worked with wood a day in his life. In fact, she wasn't sure his name fit his profession even now. He was theatrical in a way that would put the most over-the-top Punch and Judy show to shame, practically dancing his way across the stage before her as he spouted off words like "fortunate-ality" and "mendicament" and "helpful-osity." At least the Walrus was very clearly a walrus, even with that ridiculous little clown's hat perched atop his blubbery head. The Carpenter was – there were simply no words. He had to be experienced in person.

And experiencing him Alice was. She'd barely gotten out two sentences regarding her mission before he'd roped her into playing dogsbody for him. Yes, the Mock Turtle had warned her that a favor or three would be necessary to get any information out of the Carpenter, but still, to have it happen so _quickly_. . .even Mock himself had attempted to make conversation before dragging her into the quest for his shell. She stared up at the supposed woodworker as he listed all the things he needed her to fetch so his pregnant show would be ready to pop on time. Script, music, actresses – was there anything he _did_ have for his oh-so-important debut? "It hardly seems you're ready for the show!" she finally managed to exclaim as he paused for breath, rolling her eyes. "Why can't you assemble these things yourself?"

The Carpenter shot her a deeply affronted look. "An impresario has _arrangements_!" he protested, flinging his hands to the sides. "Ducks in a row, fish to fry, coals to Newcastle, etcetera, etcetera."

"But don't those arrangements _include_ –" Alice tried again.

"We're wasting valuable time, debating things that needn't be debated!" The Carpenter pointed to the sky with one long tattooed arm. "Fetch the script from the writer! Then we can batter or clatter or natter as the case may be."

Well, if she had to, she had to. It was the way the world worked – even nonsensical, insane ones, it appeared. Alice put her hands on her hips. "Is the writer cantankerous?" _That is to say, will he attempt to bludgeon me with something on sight?_

"To a personage of _your_ distinguished repudiation?!" The Carpenter gasped, then rested the back of one nail-peppered hand on his forehead, looking away. "I blush at the notionality. He's an octopus, by the by. Lives over that way." He gestured to the left with his hammer, then turned away with a wave. "Ta ta. Let me know when everything's ready!"

Alice watched him march his way to the other end of the stage, twirling his hammer in his hand, then shook her head. _Idiot. This has to be the most poorly-run show I've ever heard of,_ she thought, leaving the main theater. The entrance hall was home to two ramps stretching out in opposite directions – Alice took the left, as Carpenter had indicated. _Then again, perhaps that's what one gets when one allows laborers and large sea mammals to run productions. Walrus is probably doing much less damage sleeping the day away than Carpenter's doing awake and busy._

She investigated the backstage for signs of the Octopus, hoping for a short trip. No such luck – all she found (though she was happy to find them) were some teeth and a memory from her Nanny in one of the dressing rooms. The crystal feather transformed the space into the little parlor the Liddells used as a music room, with her seated at the piano keyboard. _"If you spent as much time practicing as you do in 'Wonderland,' you'd be the next Sullivan," _the image of Nan Sharpe – younger now, and dressed more appropriately for looking after children – declared, arms folded as she loomed over her charge. Then she blinked and frowned._ "Or Gilbert. Or – one of them."_

Alice chuckled as the ghostly Nan dissolved into the currents. "I doubt that, Nanny," she murmured as she backtracked through the keyhole entrance and up to the exit hall doors. "I'd never be able to play as fast as their operettas demand. And I'm sure Gilbert and Sullivan didn't have to put up with imaginary friends insisting on cutting into their practice time."

As if on cue, the Cheshire Cat appeared, tail flicking from side to side. Alice eyed him. "And what do you have to say for yourself?"

"For myself, nothing," Cheshire replied. "For you, a brief warning that another battle is imminent. Fortunately, you're sufficiently fortified to kick some aaa–" Cheshire coughed, swallowing to regain his steady, smooth tone. "To boot these creatures' nether regions."

Alice smirked. "Why Cat – has my best friend been rubbing off on you?" she teased. "No, wait, it can't be that – even Victor is capable of saying the word 'ass.' Since when are you such a prude?"

Cheshire's grin never faltered, but his eyes narrowed in clear annoyance. "Allow a cat not to sully his dignity with unnecessary swearing," he grumbled, fading away to just eyes and teeth. "And I hope that Victor's dislike for seafood has been rubbing off on _you_. You'll need it."

With that, he vanished entirely. Alice grinned darkly at the spot where he'd been, summoning her Hobby Horse from the ether. "Bring it on."

* * *

"If I had eeeears, they'd be huuurting!"

"I do, and they are," Alice muttered as she walked further into the tropical grotto the Octopus had directed her toward. Occupying this bright spot of shallow sea was a most curious creature – a blue bottle with eyes, fins, and a tail like a fish. Alice supposed that, for something that would normally be considered mere trash, it looked well enough – but its voice was the whiniest, more unmusical thing she'd ever heard. Was this really the singer Carpenter had chosen to perform the show's music? Yes, he'd described it as "tune-deaf," but this was more "tune-_dead_," in her opinion.

Still, she'd managed to convince that drunken "artiste" of an Octopus to surrender the script. Perhaps there was hope for this creature too. Alice leapt into the middle of the sunny grove of colorful underwater – flowers? She couldn't remember the proper name from Papa's books on sea life – landing on the highest of the pink stone platforms jutting out of the white sand. The Bottle-Fish turned to look at her with its eye stalks. "Excuse my interruption – I'm not terribly musical, but you seem out of tune," she greeted it, direct but polite. No sense in being nasty until this puzzling being proved itself worthy of such treatment.

True to form for most Wonderland creatures, it did so immediately. "It's not my faaaault," it whined. "I can't hear my nooootes." It gestured with a fin to three shell speakers set above three round entrances carved into the mottled gray and green rock formations surrounding them. "The pipes are ooobstruuucted."

"I can see that," Alice said, eying the silent speakers. Well, no, she didn't really, but she understood what the Bottle-Fish meant, at any rate. "Why not do something about it? Call your musicians to play in here? It's nice enough, and you wouldn't need to rely on pipes."

"Yeeeelll?! And endanger my vooocal chords?!" the Bottle-Fish gasped, bobbing up and down frantically. "That would beeeee a distasteeeeer! Besides, they're stuuuuuck in the caaaves."

"Can't you free them?"

"Diiiiivas do not sully their fins with suuuuuuch things," the Bottle-Fish proclaimed haughtily, turning up its "snout." One yellow eye fixed on her. "You might do iiiit for meeeee."

Why was she not surprised. "Everyone here has an excuse for doing nothing!" Alice snapped, folding her arms. "Reminds me of the asylum."

The Bottle-Fish made no response to this – just looked at her expectantly. Alice let out a deep, irritated sigh. _Yes, all right, I'll go unblock your stupid –_

A familiar glitter distracted her from her thoughts. Another memory from Victor was awaiting her not two feet away, perched atop one of the flat-topped "flowers" growing in this little tropical pool. She grinned as the butterfly spun slowly round and round. The Bottle-Fish could wait a minute or two – and besides, Victor's voice would be _much_ more pleasant to listen to. She jumped onto the "flower" (oh, to know its proper name!), then shattered the crystal.

_Victor's fingers danced over the piano's keys, moving with a practiced grace foreign to the rest of his body. The music spun out after them, filled with a raw, wild passion. Alice fancied she could see the notes traveling through the air, glowing white-hot as they spiraled away from the instrument. _Victor's right – it is like magic,_ she thought. _It just wraps around you and spirits you away, off to some other world so much brighter and freer than this one. And without a single bothersome hallucination to boot.

_The last vibrating note flew away from the keys. Alice applauded as Victor took a deep, steadying breath. "That was amazing," she told him as he turned to her. "You're incredibly talented."_

_Victor ducked his head, a shy smile playing on his lips."Thank you. __**I'm so glad you enjoyed it. I always get a little nervous when other people hear me play."**_

"_You shouldn't," Alice said. "You've got a wonderful gift. I wish I could play half as well as you."_

_There was a moment's hesitation. Then Victor lifted his face to hers, biting his lip. __**"Well – if you'd r-really like to learn piano, Alice, I. . ." **__He stopped and swallowed, getting up his nerve. __**"I could give you a few lessons. . . ."**_

"I'd rather you perform for Carpenter and show him what real music is like," Alice murmured, hopping off the "flower" (anemone? Was that it? It sounded right) as Houndsditch's foyer was whisked away by the waves. "Then again, given how topsy-turvy everything is here, he'd probably consider your talents inferior to air blown over a bottle. Just more proof that that madman shouldn't be in charge of a theater. . . ."

It was rather sad, she had to admit. Victor was an amazing pianist, and she was sure people would cram themselves into the most expensive theaters and music halls to hear him play. The most ardent music-hater wouldn't be able to say a word against what he could coax out of a piano. But her friend was far too shy to perform in front of a crowd. She supposed she couldn't blame him though, even if it was a terrible loss to the music community. Music was just too personal for Victor. He'd told her the first time she'd caught him at the piano in Houndsditch that having anyone watching him while he played made him feel exposed – like they'd gotten a glimpse of the most secret depths of his soul. That wasn't something you showed to just anyone, Alice knew. Particularly not to a group of strangers who would be judging every note coming out of the instrument. After being friends with him for so long, Alice knew that you could count the people Victor felt truly comfortable sharing his music with on one hand: Victoria Everglot, Emily the corpse bride –

_And me._

The thought froze her right on the threshold of the first of the three caves. That was true, wasn't it? He'd been sharing his music with her for _months_ now – ever since she'd given him that drawing of the Ball & Socket for his birthday. He no longer shied away from playing if she was in the room – in fact, he'd even played _for_ her a couple of times, when she was in a bad mood and needed cheering up. She'd realized it was a privilege, yes, but only now had it struck her how unusual it had to be. Had Victor ever played for anyone else of his own volition? Or was she the only one who had ever gotten blessed with such a gift? And that offer for lessons. . . . Was he merely desperate to share something he adored with the only other person his age in the Home? Or was there more to it? After all, he'd named that piano duet with Emily as the moment he'd truly fallen in love with the corpse bride. And he'd confessed right afterward that he'd wanted to teach Victoria the instrument shortly after meeting her, wanting to share his deepest passion with the woman he'd expected to share the rest of his life with. She bit her lip as her heart quickened. Did – did wanting to give _her_ lessons mean –

_No, of course not!_ Alice scolded herself, rolling her eyes at her own stupidity. _You know how he is. He hates talking about love and marriage, and who could blame him? That whole mess with losing both Emily and Victoria within two months of each other must have hardened his heart to the idea of sharing his life with anyone. He just thinks of you as a friend. A close friend, perhaps, but just a friend. And besides, who would actually _want_ the girl who spent ten years in Rutledge? You know damn well how fortunate you are that he didn't run screaming once you told him about your time in there. That he hasn't run screaming seeing you struggle for every day of sanity you have. Stop seeing things that aren't there and just be grateful for what you have._

Still – knowing Victor both liked and trusted her enough to share his precious piano with her sent pleasant tingles running up and down her spine. _Maybe, when I get back, I'll ask if that offer for lessons still stands,_ she thought, entering the cave at last._ I would like to see if any of that enormous talent might rub off on me. And he's sure to be a better teacher than Nanny._ She grimaced as she ran up a rickety driftwood slope to the top of the chamber. _Damn, I hope she's all right after what Splatter did to her. . .and to her bar. . . ._

For the briefest of moments, the Mangled Mermaid swam before her eyes, fire licking across the walls and ceiling as people screamed on the floor below. Then it was gone again, replaced by a large sandy area surrounded by rock and coral, and what looked like two tentacles holding drumsticks smothered under a thick cover of Ruin. _Worry about that later,_ she thought, readying her Vorpal Blade and leaping down to meet an army of Insidious Ruin, led by a snarling Menacing Ruin. _Time to give our diva her notes back! Though if it makes any difference to her voice, I'll eat my seaweed necklace._

* * *

"You fixed it!" The oyster starlet clapped her – hands, Alice supposed, although really they were just featureless little nubs – as the fish head behind her opened its toothy maw, ready to provide passage to the next part of the Deluded Depths. "Carpenter will be so pleased! Let us now resume our place before our adoring fans at the Theater!"

"Yes, let's," Alice muttered, reading over the poster she'd just been forced to reassemble at the starlet's demand. "So 'Totentanz – The Dance of Death' can finally – Death?" Her head snapped up. "You silly girl, come back! It's not a play! Come back!"

But the oyster starlet was gone, having already swum through the fish's mouth. Alice groaned deep in her throat. "Stupid thing. . .I'd almost say you deserve to be eaten."

She looked again at the poster, then pressed her hands against her eyes. How could she have been so foolish? She knew the poem! Her suspicions should have been roused from the moment Carpenter had mentioned the stars were oysters. At the very least, the Octopus telling her Walrus's assigned role as the Reaper in this farce should have given her pause. "Seems an awful lot of work to go through just to get your lunch," she muttered, poking at a loose corner. "And why would a community populated by fish enjoy a show all about devouring seafood?"

Well, it wasn't her fate to stand here wondering – it was to go back to the theater and have a long, angry conversation with a certain pair of idiots. Leaving the poster to rot away on the ocean floor (and good riddance – whose idea was it to paste it onto separate blocks that could be tossed all over the seaweed gardens?), she ran after the starlet. _Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll catch up with her and her sisters before they get onto the stage._

After who knew how long spent in darkness being transported through the endless ocean, the mouth finally opened again, revealing a thin bridge of fossilized coral and fish skeletons, which in turn led to – a cemetery? She thought she could see elaborate tombstones behind the iron bars of the gates, as well as innumerable sunken ships, their broken masts and tattered sails still waving in the currents. _Well, I suppose I did just have death on my mind,_ Alice allowed, spreading her arms out for balance as she navigated the fragile path. _Do my murderous pair give their victims a proper burial? Seems the absolute least they could do. . . ._

She'd just reached the other side and was grudgingly admiring the way the gates formed a skull's face when shut when the sound of something speeding toward her caught her attention. Spinning around, she saw the Walrus, Carpenter on his back, racing through the cold blue waters. As they approached, Walrus suddenly reared up and smashed the bridge with his back fins, sending it toppling into the blackness below. Fresh anger flared up inside Alice – how dare they attempt to strand her! After all she'd done for them! "'Dance of Death' – my God, you're not an impresario, you're a killer!" she shouted at the Carpenter. "The mastermind of a criminal enterprise!" _Although maybe "mastermind" is a bit much, given I doubt how much mind you have._

"This world is not so 'either-or,' Alice," Carpenter replied as Walrus came bobbing to a stop in front of her. "The show will go on – it just may be those particular sisters' last show." He smirked. "Don't tell me you actually care for them."

"They're whiny and annoying, true, but they still don't deserve to be your lunch," Alice said, glaring at him with fists loosely clenched. "As it is, I've done your bidding. If I'm to be responsible for those girls' deaths–" _like I might have been for my family – no, Alice, don't think about that _"– the least you could do is hold up your end of the bargain!"

"You did a few errands, got your hands dirty – big deal," Carpenter said dismissively, his wild red hair waving in the currents. "It was all in the service of art!"

"Art? What sort of art is murder on the stage?"

"It serves a higher purpose! The show distraculates the crowd from the terrors around them – shame you'll miss it." His voice lowered dangerously as he peered out at her from beneath a lowered brow. "You need to deal with these sailors. It's your time."

"Time? Time?" Walrus suddenly cut in, wriggling his massive body and almost unseating his partner. "The time has come to talk of ships, and – uh – and vegetables, and royalty, and – uh – and whether pigs have wings, and so on–"

"Enough of that, Walrus!" the Carpenter shouted, leaning down with a glare sharper than the nails hammered through his hands and eyebrow. "You start wailing about there being too much sand on the beach, I'll have your blubber for breakfast!"

If only he would, and spare those unfortunates she'd gathered for his show. And if only he'd give her the answers she'd asked for! "Shame on you, Carpenter," Alice scolded, folding her arms. "You made a promise."

"I had no choice," Carpenter replied, ducking his head in a vague facsimile of regret. "One can't always do as one would like. I'd have thought you'd know that by now."

And with that, the pair was off, flying their way through the cold waters back to what passed for civilization down here. Behind her, Alice heard the all-too-familiar sound of something clawing its way up through the sand. She spun around as the rusted cemetery gates creaked open. Rising behind her was a terrible sight: a blue-skinned sailor, with bone sticking out here and there from his tattered flesh, a broken bottle clutched in one withered hand, a rotting pipe stem clenched between yellowed teeth, and white-blue eyes glowing with malice. It was a figure Alice had encountered infrequently during her travels beneath the waves – and yet still much too often. Alice immediately summoned her Hobby Horse, going on high alert. These bastards were tricky, and only vulnerable when stunned. _Hardly the joyous welcoming party Victor received on his visit to the underworld,_ she thought. _At least this one's not carrying bombs._ "'Die, die, we all pass away – but don't wear a frown, 'cause it's really okay?'" she sang at the corpse, hoping a knowledge of the customs of Below would perhaps earn its friendship instead of its ire.

The sailor paused, cocking his head and wrinkling his brow in confusion. Then he shrugged and dove under the sand, howling like a miniature freight train as he tore his way through the ground toward her. Alice dodged backward in a rabble of butterflies as he exploded from the ground, bottle poised to slash open her throat. "No musical taste," she muttered. "Victor would be very disappointed, you know!"

The sailor ignored her scolding, ducking under the sand again for another ambush. Alice sighed and circled around, tracking his movements carefully. "At least now I can be absolutely sure I'm not killing friends of yours," she whispered to herself. "But don't worry, Victor – I promise to spare any singing skeletons I may come across."

* * *

The final china face shattered. The towering black monster screeched in pain, then started lumbering toward her again, bone-white arms reaching out to snatch her up. _No, no, no!_ Alice mentally shrieked, butterflying out of its path. _I was down its gullet once already! I don't want to repeat the experience!_ She sprinted away from the creature as fast as her aching limbs could move. But the gigantic mound of oozing tar and porcelain limbs and jagged metal pipes just kept getting closer and closer, its wide "mouth" ready to gobble her up and suffocate her in sizzling black goop –

A train whistle wailed through the water, making the Ruin "look" up. For a moment, it seemed to listen to some inaudible command. Then it screamed at Alice once more – a promise that their battle was not yet over – before slamming itself into the ground, slithering away and disappearing from her sight. Alice nearly collapsed in relief. _Oh God. . . and here I was sure Menacing Ruins were the worst of the lot!_ she thought, panting._ But that – that _Colossal _Ruin. . . . I wonder why it – no, you know what? I don't care. I'm just glad I wasn't expected to kill it! . . .this time, anyway._

With that disturbing thought in mind, Alice smashed her way through the brittle Ruin barrier blocking the exit from the impromptu battle arena. _I've got to get back to Carpenter,_ she thought, making her way up the slope._ Parsimonious, pettifogging moron he may be, and no friend to oysters, but he deserves to know that his theater is in danger from –_

_from. . . ._

Her jaw dropped. Stretched out before her was – carnage. Within a sort of wooden cage, piled up in haphazard lumps, were dozens and dozens of fish men and women, their clothing stripped and their skin torn away. Here and there one had been nailed to a beam, their guts pinned open for display, or hung from the ceiling on hooks, limbs fluttering uselessly in the currents. Blood soaked the sand in front of her, and the water was filled with the stench of decaying meat. Alice pressed her lips together tightly, doing her best to hold back vomit. _Good lord, what _happened_?_

The sound of piteous moaning drew her attention. Wading _very_ carefully into the sea of bodies (_why_ had Wonderland not given her shoes with this dress?!), Alice saw a most peculiar creature – a nautilus, perhaps? She remembered something like him from Papa's books – crucified against a hanging anchor. A saw was stuck in his head, as if someone had been trying to crack him open, only to abandon the endeavor halfway through. His neat blue suit and the badge pinned to his chest suggested he was someone important – Alice leaned forward to read the word "Mayor" printed in neat gold letters on the red circle. She reached up and twisted her fingers together with his tentacles – poor comfort, but all she could give. "Mayor of nothing but a grave, now," she whispered as the creature continued to groan.

"Every picture tells a story. Sometimes we don't like the ending. Sometimes we don't understand it."

Alice frowned over at Cheshire as he faded from sight. Obtuse and roundabout as always, but he did have a point. This picture did tell a story, and she did _not_ like the ending. She'd already worked out that the Walrus and the Carpenter's "show" was really nothing more than an excuse to eat the supposed stars. Why should she be surprised that they were willing to do the same to the audience? "No wonder they tried to get me killed fighting those shades," she muttered. "What monsters. . . ."

Well, she was not dead, and judging by the look of the architecture here, she was just outside the diabolical duo's headquarters. Giving the groaning Mayor a final, gentle pat, she ran up the wooden ramps and through the door into the pink-tinted light of backstage Dreary Lane Theater, pulling out her Vorpal Blade as she did.

Time for the show.


	9. Splatter Gets What He's Owed

Chapter 9

September 13th, 1875

Billingsgate, London's East End, England

7:50 A.M.

"What's going – Oh hell!"

"Someone get the fire brigade!"

"There goes my plans for the night. . . ."

"Eva! Are you all right?"

"Yeah, though I lost my best skirt! Lucky I had time to yank up my drawers!"

"What happened? Who did it?"

"Have no idea! Place just went up like a Chinese firecracker!"

Victor stood in the center of the rapidly-growing crowd, staring in horror at the burning brothel as people chattered frantically around him. The rain had chosen the absolute worst moment to stop, leaving the flames free to devour the Mangled Mermaid without hindrance. The entire upper level was ablaze, glowing a fierce and frightful yellow-orange against the black sky, and the lower level didn't appear to be doing much better. _I bet it'll all be rubble by lunchtime,_ Victor thought, squeezing his hands tightly together as he grimaced. _Oh dear, imagine if Alice had to see this! She'd be screaming in her sleep for the rest of the month, I'm sure. I didn't think I'd ever say this, but thank God that man was wrong about her coming this way! At least, I'm pretty sure he was wrong. . . ._ He scanned the crowd again, searching for her familiar dress and hair. Nope – no sign of her. Hopefully she was far, far away from this catastrophe, holed up somewhere safe and dreaming of a better world.

"Well, well, well, look who's here! Finally decided to sample some of the wares? I could have offered you a better price than that fat tit."

_Oh, wonderful,_ Victor thought, biting back a groan. That was _just_ the voice he wanted to hear at a time like this. "Mr. Splatter, would it do any good to ask you to leave me alone?"

"No," Jack Splatter, pimp among pimps, said with a terrible grin, sidling up to him. "I thought you were against women making an honest living. What brings a boy like you over to the Mangled Mermaid?"

"Personal business," Victor snapped, then winced. "Oh, I walked into that one. . . ."

Splatter laughed. "Not such a moral crusader now, are you, Van Dort?"

"No! I mean, yes – I mean – I'm looking for Alice!" Victor glared at the pimp. "I don't suppose _you've_ seen her." Ugh, it galled him to have to ask _Jack Splatter _of all people about Alice's whereabouts, but the fact of the matter was, Splatter was one of the best sources of information on these mean streets. He had the largest web of prostitutes in the East End under his command, after all – and Victor knew all too well how much the pimp enjoyed harassing Alice about joining the ranks. If anyone could give him a lead, it was most likely Splatter.

"Actually, as a matter of fact, I have," Jack Splatter said, smirking. "Your favorite girl decided to stick her nose into a private matter between me and my ladybird."

Victor blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"I told Sharpe to get her ugly whores out onto the street, but she insisted on making things difficult," Splatter explained with relish. "Hurt me feelings, she did. So I went up there and gave her a bit of a talking-to."

Victor, who was familiar with what Jack Splatter's "talkings-to" consisted of, felt a spark of anger light inside him. "How dare you! Madam Sharpe doesn't work for you, does she?"

"We had an arrangement – which she decided wasn't worth keeping up," Splatter declared with a shrug. "Not my fault if that fat old blower doesn't know what's good for her. What do you care, anyway? You don't know Miss Ladybird." He suddenly grinned, yellowed teeth gleaming in the firelight. "But maybe you care about me giving Alice a smack over the ear for not keeping her mouth shut."

Oh, Victor cared. The spark kindling deep within his breast swelled, became a fire to rival the one ravaging the Mermaid. He didn't think he'd been this angry since Lord Barkis had tried to drag Victoria away to her doom at sword point. "You _hit_ her?" he snarled, his hands bunching into fists.

"Knocked her cold," Jack Splatter said proudly. "Didn't even hit her that hard, either. 'Course, can't expect a silly little tail like her to take a few lumps." He cracked his knuckles and gave Victor a shark's smile. "Don't think you're gonna be much more of a fight. Unless you ain't interested in defending her honor?"

Victor seethed, his nails biting into the palms of his hands. _Just once. It'll be worth all the bruises in the world to punch this disgusting Haymarket Hector in the face just once,_ he thought, his arm already starting to tense for the blow. _I know Alice is always telling me not to get into it with him, but even she – _

_Wait. He just admitted he saw her. Confessed to knocking her senseless, in fact. Inside the Mermaid._

_And I haven't seen hide nor hair of her out in this crowd._

Icy horror extinguished rage as surely as a bucket of water on a flame. Victor spun to face the burning Mermaid again, forgetting Splatter's presence completely. _She's still in there. She's unconscious or trapped and she might – might –_ "ALICE!"

His legs exploded into motion, propelling him forward through the crush of people. "Hey!" Jack Splatter yelled, lunging for his arm. "We ain't done here, you stinking toff! Know you're a bleeding coward, but nobody runs from–"

Victor whirled on the spot, letting his momentum carry his fist into Splatter's jaw. The crack of bone against bone sent shockwaves up his arm and left his fingers stinging red, but it was nothing Victor couldn't handle. He'd faced down taking a sword to the ribs – throwing a punch, especially in these circumstances, was nothing. He whipped back around and started running again, content that he'd taken care of his pursuit for now. So intent was he on his goal that he didn't even notice the astonished Splatter, knocked off balance by the hit, stumble and fall backward. Nor did he see the man smash his head on a packing crate and collapse to the ground, unconscious. He didn't even hear the shocked shouts of "that swell just nobbled Splatter!" from the men around the pimp. His focus was solely on one thing – the front door of the Mermaid.

The crowd had grown to encompass almost all of the dock in front of the pub, filled with refugees and gawkers. It was a lot of people to get through, but Victor didn't care. He just shoved past whoever was in his way, dodging and weaving through every gap. Cries of shock and indignation followed him: "Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"No respect for ladies! World's getting worse by the minute, Maxie."

"What's a swell like _him_ doing here?"

"Idiot! If I ever get my hands on you. . . ."

"Where are you going? Wait, you're not–"

"You can't go in there! You're going to get yourself killed!"

"Yeah, one less rich boy in the world, that's a _real _loss. . . ."

Victor ignored them all, ripping open the door before anyone could think to stop him and darting inside the burning building. The interior was much worse off than the exterior – the fire was all around here, licking and devouring every scrap of wood within reach. Victor's clothes promptly began to steam from the intense heat, sending up a white mist which mixed with the charcoal-colored smoke and painted nearby surfaces black. Almost every table and chair had been upended, and a fancy screen intended to provide customers with a bit of privacy lay in broken, scorched pieces on the floor – more likely victims of the mad rush to escape than the blaze. The bottles behind the bar glowed red-hot as the fire caressed their fragile bodies – the bar itself was rapidly giving itself over to the flames, its cheap varnish rebelling against its fate by sending out a massive stink. A player piano in the near corner provided a twisted and garbled soundtrack to the chaos as its internal mechanisms melted into junk. And mounted above the fireplace, a soot-blackened wooden mermaid stood sentinel over the destruction, awaiting her turn to be cast to the pyre. "Oh dear God," Victor whispered, standing just inside the threshold. _It's like I've just stumbled into Pastor Galswell's favorite vision of Hell. _A cup left abandoned on the bar abruptly popped, sending glass sailing across the room and forcing Victor back a step. _Could Alice really still be alive in this mess?_ "Alice?" he called, edging around one of the broken tables. His foot hit something hot and runny, and he looked down to see himself leaving a trail of wax from a liquidized candle. He wiped it off on what remained of the rug, lest his shoe get scorched beyond wearing. "Alice?!"

"Mocking, blubbery glutton! You're not half the thespian you think you are! Not a quarter! Not an _eighth_!"

"Alice! You're going to get yourself cooked just like your parents! Stay with me, girl!"

Victor followed the voices up to the second floor, wiping the sweat out of his eyes as he raced up the stairs. Reaching the top landing, he found a middle-aged, rather heavy-set woman with an old peacock feather stuck in her hair and an anchor tattoo on her breast wrestling with Alice. The woman – Madam Sharpe? – was attempting to drag Alice away from a room completely consumed by the fire, while Alice clawed and kicked at her, struggling to break free. Victor recognized his friend's wide, unseeing gaze from the incident with the wardrobe. _Oh no – Alice, why hallucinate _now_?_ "Alice!" he cried, stepping forward.

The woman glanced over at him. "What the – where did you come from?" she demanded.

Alice, however, took advantage of the distraction to slip out of her arms. "Wicked thing! Feasting while Wonderland is destroyed!" she shouted, jabbing her finger at a burning loveseat.

"Bloody forget about Wonderland! It's you who's about to be destroyed!" the woman yelled.

Victor darted forward, grabbing Alice by the shoulders and giving her a shake. He hated to handle her so roughly, but desperate times called for desperate measures. "Alice! Alice, no one here is your enemy! Please wake up!" he begged, leaning down to meet her eyes.

Alice looked through him, eyes narrowed in anger. "Appeasement? As if _you_ don't share in the spoils!" she snapped, fists clenched.

"Are you an idiot or a practiced fool, my girl?" the woman groaned. "You'd think fire would be the one thing guaranteed to snap you out of that state!"

"Nobody's sharing in the spoils today," Victor said, hoping that by playing along a bit he could convince her to at least go down the stairs. "Alice, we're in terrible danger! We need to escape this place before it comes down around our ears!"

Alice glared at him for a moment longer – then, suddenly, her face lost all its color. "Oh, no – who set that bloody train in motion? Where has it come from?!" she gasped, pressing her hands against her mouth.

"Train?" Victor couldn't help but stare at her, baffled. What in God's name did that mean? What did a train have to do with anything? What on earth was _happening_ in her Wonderland?

A loud creak from the ceiling made him look up. The cheap plaster was bulging and cracking in a most disturbing way. Victor yanked Alice into his arms and whirled them both away – just as part of the roof smashed into the spot where they'd been standing. Victor pressed his friend close to his chest, trying to shield her from any further danger. _Is this what you went through, Mr., Mrs., and Miss Liddell?_ he thought, coughing as the smoke built up around them. _It seems an awful way to die._

Alice hit his shoulder with a loose fist, squirming in his grasp. "Stop it! Let me go! You're not allowed to hug me like Victor, Carpenter!"

"I _am_ Victor!" Victor cried, pulling away to look her full in the face.

Alice blinked – then, finally, her eyes focused on him. "Oh, so you are," she said, a smile flickering across her lips. "Good."

And with that, she slumped over in a faint. Victor grabbed her before she could hit the ground, propping her up under her arms. "Alice? Alice!" he cried, shaking her.

"Don't bother," the woman said, coming up behind him. "Probably better this way." She laid a meaty hand on his shoulder, pushing him toward the stairs. "So – you're Victor then?"

"Victor Van Dort, yes," Victor said, scooping Alice into his arms. Another flaming beam took out the far end of the upstairs hall. "And you're her nanny?"

"Nan Sharpe," the woman introduced herself with a nod. "Pleasure to meet you at last. Alice's told me a lot about you. Said you were rich, and kind, and handy with a pen." She smiled at him through a bruised and blackened face. "Never said you were so brave and so stupid."

"Jack Splatter told me he'd knocked her out in here," Victor said as they hurried down the steps, trying to ignore the way they groaned under their weight. "I couldn't leave her."

Madam Sharpe eyed him for a long moment. "Brave and stupid," she repeated, shaking her head. "Let's get her into the fresh air, see if she makes any sense when she comes round." She frowned at her former charge, limp in Victor's arms, as they picked their way across what remained of the bar. "I really thought she was doing better. Gotten past that asylum nonsense."

"Me too," Victor whispered, gazing down at Alice's face. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady, as if she were just having a little nap. She seemed so at peace like this, you'd hardly believe she'd just had a psychotic episode. "But she's been wandering around in this state for a week, and I – I d-don't know what to do."

"Well, you just saved her life," Madam Sharpe said as she shoved open what remained of the front door and herded him out into the dim morning light. "And probably mine too. That's got to count for something."

The crowd was still packed onto the dock as they emerged, joined now by whatever passed for firemen in this part of the city. A scattering of spontaneous applause broke out as the pair appeared. "Save it!" Madam Sharpe yelled, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "Where's Splatter?"

"Arse over teakettle and not getting up anytime soon," a voice called. Victor was a little surprised to see the bulldog-voiced man he'd met before standing there, looking at him with new respect. "You secretly play rugby, you twig?"

"No – just lucky," Victor admitted, feeling a twinge of pride.

Madam Sharpe stared at him in clear shock. "You – hell, there's more to you than meets the eye, isn't there?" She glanced back in Splatter's direction. "Either way, though, we'd best be off before he wakes. Don't particularly feel like trying to deal with him after this mess – and besides, some of my girls need to be warned they ain't got a place to sleep tonight."

"Fine by me," Victor assured her. They hurried around the burning building, leaving the gawkers to gawk and the firemen to throw buckets of water at whatever they could salvage. The back of the Mermaid looked no better than the front, but it was much less crowded. "I'm very sorry about your business," he added, wincing as the flames sought freedom through the upstairs windows.

"Kind of you to say – especially since Alice has told me you don't think much of the girls around here," Madam Sharpe said, signaling to a nearby man unloading a cart.

"Even if I don't personally want to indulge, that doesn't mean I want any of you to die in a fire."

"Ungh. . . ."

Both Victor and Madam Sharpe looked down. Alice's eyes opened for a moment, glazed and unfocused. She looked left and right, her expression confused. Then they closed again, her head dropping back against Victor's chest. Madam Sharpe tched sadly. "Almost like she was back in Rutledge, poor girl. She tell you about that?"

"A little – not much," Victor said, shuddering.

"Yeah, not surprised. She wasn't really around for most of it – mentally, I mean. If she wasn't comatose, she gaped, eyes like pinwheels. Drooled, screeched, but almost never uttered a sensible sound – until they tried fixing up her rabbit, what I hear." She shook her head. "At least she's not spewing out what she kept screaming when they first brought her in – 'My past is dead,' 'I killed them,' 'I should have saved them,' 'I should have died. . . .' Her mind was in shambles."

"I fear it is again," Victor mumbled, before coughing from some smoke caught in his throat. "I just want her to be well – to stay with us in the real world. Is that really too much to ask?"

"Not for me to say," Madam Sharpe said with a sigh. "You just keep a close eye on her – make sure she can't run off again before we get out of here." She turned back to the man with the cart, who'd come over with his horse. "That cart for rent? Three of us need to get over to Threadneedle Street in the West End. . . ."

Victor looked back down at Alice as Madam Sharpe negotiated with the driver. His friend was frowning now in her sleep, as if her dream had turned into a nightmare. Now and again she groaned a little. Victor felt his heart twist in his chest as he watched her. What torments were her mind delivering on her now? Her hallucinations had just nearly made her commit inadvertent suicide – wasn't that enough for one day?

And there was still the question of the train. He vaguely recalled Alice mentioning a railway in Wonderland before – the Looking-Glass Line – but that couldn't be the train she'd been talking about. She'd know where that one came from, and who set it in motion. So what was this new railroad? She'd looked so afraid when speaking of it. . .was it responsible for her decreased mental state? Was it tearing her psyche to pieces – forcing her back into insanity? God, he hoped not. The very thought made his stomach knot up. "Please, Alice – fight the train," he whispered to her as the weak sun finally broke through the clouds. "Stop it, crash it, derail it – just–" He closed his eyes, cradling her close to him. "Just don't leave me."

**A.N.: Sorry for the wait on this chapter! I assure you, it was for a good cause - if you look back at "Losing You," "For You Were Not The One," and "Finding You," you'll find the stories have been updated and edited to what I feel is a much higher quality - particularly "Finding You." I also updated all the chapters of this story previous to uploading this one, so please check them out!**


	10. Ride of Reconnection

Chapter 10

September 13th, 1875

Billingsgate, London's East End, England

8:09 A.M.

"Uhhh. . .what?"

"Alice? Are you all right?"

What had promised to be a rather slow return to consciousness became a lot faster upon hearing that voice. "Victor?" Alice said, jerking her head up and blinking.

It was indeed her friend, looking far worse for wear than she remembered. His hair was mussed and damp, his skin stained with smudgy black patches, and his clothing stank of smoke. The shoulder of his jacket was torn as well, revealing a glimpse of the dingy white shirt underneath. He was watching her with wide, anxious eyes, hands twisted together on his lap. "Alice?" he repeated, swallowing. "You – you are w-with us, right?"

"Where else would I – no, don't answer that, I know far too well. Yes, I'm here," Alice confirmed, rubbing her eye. Not that she knew where "here" was. Back in London again, that was obvious. . .and she could tell they were moving. . . . A quick look around showed that she and Victor were sharing a rickety wooden cart with Nanny, being driven away from –

Her heart stopped beating for a moment. Behind them, the Mangled Mermaid glowed yellow-pink against the light grey sky, black smoke pouring from every crack in an effort to replace the recently departed rain clouds. A few people were gathered around the back door, watching the old wood fall to pieces in the fire's hungry mouth. Alice couldn't help but stare at the flames bulging from the windows and back door. _One lamp did all that. . . ._

"Your friend here raced right into the thick of that mess," Nanny said as if from a distance. "Might have been able to get you out myself, but he was a big help. How _are_ you, Alice?"

Alice finally managed to tear her eyes away from the blaze to do a quick self-assessment. She seemed to be all right – at least, she wasn't sporting a fresh set of burns. Her face still stung a little, though, and on her tongue – ugh! "The blood in my mouth tastes like bile," she reported, resisting the urge to spit. She poked her tongue against her teeth – they didn't feel loose. Perhaps she'd bitten her cheek without realizing before falling unconscious. It wasn't like she hadn't suffered such minor self-injury before.

Thinking about that, though, made her remember the reason for her pain – and for the Mermaid burning down. Her eyes narrowed. "Where's the brute that hit me, Nanny?"

"Nasty prat's out cold," Nanny said, glowering at the back of her now-destroyed business. "Not dead, and more's the pity."

"Indeed," Alice agreed, feeling the side of her head. "Wish _he'd_ been caught in the flames."

"Would have served him right," Victor agreed with a frown. "What did he want, anyway?"

"What they all want – money he didn't earn." Nanny shook her head. "What were you thinking butting into that mess, Alice? You could have been killed!"

"How badly did he hurt you?" Victor asked, with a hardness in his voice that surprised Alice. Then again, Jack Splatter had a talent for getting up Victor's nose. Alice had seen them argue before, and it hadn't done much for her nerves. While she appreciated that Victor had been brought up to respect women, she'd had to remind him more than once such an attitude in the wrong place could get him killed here. At least Splatter saw Victor as little more than an occasional annoyance. She was quite sure her friend would have had to make a few surreptitious visits to the local doctor if things were otherwise.

"I'm fine – I might not have even fallen unconscious if I wasn't making a habit of it lately," Alice lied, not wanting him to worry about her. Or to go do something stupid. One of her friend's main faults, she'd realized, was a tendency to act without thinking. That was what led him into most of his arguments with Splatter in the first place. "I'm upright now, and that's the main thing."

Victor looked like he wanted to argue that point for a moment. Then he sighed, his gaze dropping to his sooty shoes. "I – I wish I'd gotten there earlier," he mumbled. "Stopped him from hurting either of you. I was just a few minutes behind. . . ."

"I think it's more likely Splatter would have made mincemeat out of you," Nanny said, though not without fondness. "I know you just knocked him silly–" Alice's jaw dropped "– but even you admitted that was a lucky hit. If he'd been at his best, and with one of his knives at hand – well, you'd have probably been in the same mess we were in, if not worse." She patted his hand. "Not discounting your bravery, mind. And that must have been a decent punch to stagger him like that."

Victor's only response was another sigh. Alice stared at him. "We – appreciate the sentiment," she said slowly. "At least, I know I do – did you _really_ just knock out _Jack Splatter_?"

Victor raised his head, smirking. "I did indeed," he said, puffing himself up with pride. "Like your Nanny said, it was mostly luck – that and catching him completely off guard – but I punched him right in the jaw when he tried to keep me from going in to find you. Perhaps I shouldn't have done so, but – forgive me, the satisfaction of knowing I knocked him on his arse more than makes up for any consequences." His smile faded, and he reached out to capture one of her hands in his. "That said – you're _sure_ you're all right?"

Oh, how she just wanted to tell him "yes" and be done with it – but it was impossible to refuse those pleading eyes of his. "Physically, yes. Mentally – not so much," she confessed, looking at their joined hands. "My mind's in pieces, Victor. I'm having terrible visions."

"I know," Victor said softly, giving her hand a squeeze. "You, ah, called me Carpenter right before you – blacked out."

Oh. Right, she remembered that now. The Carpenter shielding her with his body as the Infernal Train thundered into the theater – her gratefulness for the protection giving way to annoyance as he seemed to clutch her far too familiarly to his breast – and then, suddenly, his pierced and elongated visage transforming into the face of her best friend, sooty, frightened, and framed by fire – and then darkness again, her relief at being back in reality being just too much to take after everything else that had happened. "My apologies, Victor. I was dealing with a man by that name in Wonderland," she explained, blushing in embarrassment.

"You're still on about that?" Nanny asked, frowning.

"Not by choice," Alice told her, frowning back. Carpenter's last speech to her echoed in her mind: _. . .consider the prospect you have been misled, Alice! Then ask, by whom?_ Well, she was quite certain she'd been misled by Witless a fair number of times. But she was also sure that that old bint wasn't the answer to Carpenter's question. So who else could have been lying to her? She trusted few enough people as it was. . . . There was something rotten in Wonderland, and she needed help dealing with it. And since the native residents were being their usual mad and utterly incomprehensible selves, perhaps Nanny could assist her – or at least give her an answer or two. "Something's gone terribly wrong in my mind. My inner world is being destroyed, and – and I think it has to do with– "

"The fire," Nanny finished for her, a weary note in her voice. "Same as always. You need to move on, Alice – so do I. It was a horrible tragedy, I'll never deny that, but it's almost twelve years in the past now, my girl. You've got to start looking at the future."

Alice rolled her eyes. Sharpe knew about Bumby's treatments, and what she was doing at Houndsditch. Didn't Nanny realize that she'd _love_ to move on, love to forget it all, but her mind wasn't letting her? That until she figured out the truth of the matter, her hallucinations and pain would continue? She knew it had been a long time, but _really_ – was there a time limit on suffering?

"Were you there the night of the fire?" Victor asked, looking up at the older woman.

"No – I was visiting my sister out of town," Nanny replied, rubbing her good eye with her hand. "Came back to find my employers dead, my charge in the madhouse, and myself out of a job. Before you ask, I _would_ have taken her in, but. . .well, they told me she was going to be in there a while, and without any money. . . ."

"Alice said as much," Victor nodded understandingly. He tried to smile. "I'm sure you did the best you could."

"Yeah – trouble is, my best wasn't good enough."

The cart continued on its steady way though the streets of the city. Looking around, Alice saw they'd entered the Chinatown section. The stalls looked roughly the same as they did on the English streets – though the fruits they sold were more exotic than anything one might find in Whitechapel – but the tradesmen here hid their Oriental faces under broad straw hats, and babbled to each other in languages Alice didn't have a hope of understanding. In one particular gutter, she spotted a small group of children much like the ones at Houndsditch, staring blankly into the distance while a pair of men in moth-eaten suits examined them. She squinted – was it her, or did the only girl in the group look a bit like the recently adopted Caroline? The cart trundled past the scene before she could get a proper look. Probably for the best – her stomach turned at the mere suggestion of what those two men might have in store for the little ones. _Couldn't have been Caroline,_ she told herself. _Dr. Bumby would never allow it._

Nanny glared at the men as they receded into the distance. "Gonophs and lurkers," she spat. "Common as cockroaches." Her expression turned soft and sad. "And those poor tykes are food for perverts – like the blameless ants that wasps consume, or a spider's feeble prey."

". . .Wasps eat spiders too," Victor said, apparently using his bent for entomological facts to take his mind off what Nanny was implying. "One species will lay its eggs on a still-living spider after dragging it back to its nest, and the larvae devour it once they hatch."

"That's about how those perverts and prigs like to treat each other," Nanny said with a nod. "It's a cruel world, no matter how you look at it."

"I'm well aware," Victor muttered, looking both annoyed and rather sick. "Not even any point in pointing those two out to the police, is there? They'll just pay them off and be done with it. Ugly city filled with ugly people. . . ."

Alice thought it about time for a subject change, before the lot of them got too depressed. Her own mind was stuck on their previous topic anyway, particularly in light of Victor's inquiry. "You visited my room at Rutledge," she told Nanny as they drove under lines of bright red paper lanterns. "Was it because you hoped to take me home?"

"You recall that?" Nanny said, blinking. "I thought for sure you were dead to the world. I visited at Radcliffe's request – he thought familiar faces might help bring you round. Never worked, of course. . . ." She fixed her peacock feather more firmly in her hair. "He paid me too – for a bit. A woman alone sometimes does what she doesn't particularly feel like doing. As you know."

Victor's mouth fell open. "What?! Alice, t-tell me she doesn't mean–" he stammered, squeezing his tie in both hands.

"I swear I've never been on the street," Alice assured him, holding up her hands. "She means having to run errands for Dr. Bumby. Nurse Witless said you'd fallen on hard times," she added to Nanny, feeling a wave of sadness. While she'd known Nanny hadn't had much in the way of money after the fire, she never would have guessed that Radcliffe had been the one to turn her on to the business of debauchery. It was disturbing, really, to think about how fast Nan Sharpe must have gone from the child care business to the sex trade.

"I'm no drunk like her!" Nanny snapped, glaring as if she knew Alice's thoughts – and Victor's too, judging by the slightly pitying expression on his face. "I'm hurting no one! Hooking's – not a bad life."

Victor arched a dubious eyebrow, but kept his mouth shut. Alice didn't. "Except for the pimps," she returned, recalling Splatter's fist against her skull. "She also said you might have my rabbit," she added, a sick feeling growing in her stomach. Witless had implied as much on the way up to the coups anyway, muttering that someone close to her held the toy in their grasp. Had her bunny been consumed in the fire that had claimed the whorehouse? She wouldn't stop crying for a week if it had. The mysterious photograph was nice to have around, but her rabbit – that had been a seventh birthday present from Lizzie. It was a reminder of spring days and silly books and darting down rabbit holes for the very first time. Having it around was as close to being with her family again as she could get. "Please, Nanny, I'm suffering. Talk about–"

"The damn fire? Never seems to help!" Nanny shook her head, closing her eyes briefly. "Look, Alice, I can't give you what I don't have. Radcliffe wrote the inquest report. I'll take you to him – we're headed that way anyhow. Besides, _he's_ got your damned rabbit. You should remember that."

"Whatever for?" Victor asked, tilting his head and sounding completely baffled.

"Don't ask me," Nanny shrugged. "Not my place to wonder why. Maybe it's some lawyer thing – part of the estate or some nonsense like that."

Alice sighed. She hated going to visit her family's old solicitor. The man put on an amiable enough face, but Alice knew him best as a pompous, lazy git. Still, if bothering him again was her only hope of getting answers (and her rabbit). . . . "All right, but Mr. Radcliffe's useless," she muttered.

Nanny huffed. "Don't I know it."

They passed through a gate into a little market square, where the East End of London transitioned into the West End. The cart jolted to a stop in front of the center stall next to one of Nanny's girls, who was trying her luck with a somewhat better class of customer. "Here now, I heard the Mermaid's been burnt down?" the woman asked as Nanny laboriously disembarked.

Nanny nodded. "Splatter's doing. I hope you didn't have anything important in your room there."

"Would you like me to accompany you to Mr. Radcliffe's, Alice?" Victor asked, getting out of the cart and offering her a hand. "It wouldn't be any trouble, I assure you."

Alice shook her head as she hopped out of her seat. "He'll just ask who you are, and then he'll get distracted trying to convince you to tell your parents to hire him. He doesn't usually like clients, but he has a soft spot for high-profile ones. It's best if I see him alone." She put her hands on her hips as she looked up at him. "I never asked – what were you doing by the docks anyway?"

"Searching for you," Victor said, rubbing the back of his head. "You haven't been back to the Home in almost a week, Alice. I was so worried that I would find you terribly injured or d-d-dead. . . ." He swallowed. "Dr. Bumby is quite concerned as well. What should I tell him?"

Alice grimaced. Oh, wasn't this wonderful news. Not only had she been wandering blindly around London while she retrieved limbs from a rodent and fought the souls of lost sailors, probably risking her life dozens of times, she'd made it so Victor got even less sleep than was his wont. She'd thought the dark circles around his eyes looked bigger. "I'm sorry to have caused you so much grief," she said, sighing. "You can tell him that I've gone to see my old family lawyer, and that I'll be back as soon as I'm able."

Victor took her hand in his. "You promise?" he whispered, gripping it like he feared she'd vanish like spring snow if he let go.

Alice squeezed his fingers, giving him a smile. "Promise. I'll do my best to avoid getting into any more trouble. And I expect you to do the same," she added, pointing at him with her free hand. "No more running into burning buildings."

"So long as you don't get stuck in any more," Victor replied. His tone was light, but she knew he was only mostly joking.

"I have no intentions of doing so," Alice assured him. "Though while we're on the subject, thank you for helping Nanny. And for helping me."

Victor smiled at her. She hadn't realized until just this moment how much she'd missed seeing him smile. "I couldn't leave you – either of you – alone in there."

How the East End had not eaten him up and spit him out already was beyond Alice. Maybe getting dragged to the afterlife gave you mystical powers. "Thank you just the same." She squeezed his hand again. "I'll see you in a little while."

"All right." Victor, rather reluctantly, released her and stepped back. "Good luck with Mr. Radcliffe."

"Thank you," Alice said. "Good luck with Dr. Bumby."

"Thank you." With a final nod, Victor turned and headed back through the gate into the East End, fussing with his tie as was typical of him.

Alice watched him go, then turned herself in the direction of Radcliffe's home on nearby Threadneedle Street. Before she could take a single step, however, Nanny waved at her from atop a nearby crate. "Just a moment, Alice."

Puzzled, Alice went over. "Far be it from me to pry into another lady's business," Nanny said, leaning forward. "But if you have any sense in that head of yours, you'll get that boy to marry you."

Alice's jaw dropped. Was Nan Sharpe really suggesting – "Nanny!" she snapped, folding her arms. "I am _not_ marrying someone just because he's rich!"

"Rich? While I'm not saying it's not a good thing the boy's the heir to the Van Dort fish empire, that's just a nice bonus!" Nanny shook her head. "Are you completely blind, Alice? Victor's smitten with you! I haven't seen anyone that in love since – well, since your mum and dad, honestly."

Alice wasn't sure what to say to that. It felt beyond wrong to go against any opinion that involved her beloved parents. But. . . . "We're just friends," she said quietly, dropping her hands to her sides. "That's all. Friends. We couldn't be anything more."

"Friends," Nanny repeated, and sighed. "Well, you were always good at denying reality. But you keep my advice in mind. Even if you don't love him back, you can't ask for a better fate than ending up a rich someone's much-adored wife."

"I will," Alice said, trying not to let on how disgusted that made her feel. She supposed she couldn't blame Nanny for wanting her to have a better life than either stuck in Houndsditch or selling her backside, but did she have to drag Victor into it? Victor deserved a lot better than anyone from the East End, even – especially – her. She was lucky enough to have him as a friend – no sense in pushing it._ And if I do marry him, I'll have to deal with his mother,_ she thought. _Even Nanny wouldn't blame me for wanting to avoid _that_._

She shook her head. She wasn't going to give this matter another thought. There were more important fish to fry. She turned and started off for Radcliffe's at a jog, leaving Nanny behind to talk to her whore.


	11. Of Bobbies, Bumby, And A Broken Spirit

Chapter 11

September 14th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

9:07 A.M.

"Well – I suppose we can forget her being back as soon as she's able, hmmm?"

Victor glared at Dr. Bumby over the breakfast dishes. "I'm well aware that something's gone wrong, sir," he said between clenched teeth. "I honestly thought she'd be back by dinnertime at the latest!"

"You _think_ a lot of things, Master Van Dort," Dr. Bumby sniped back, scowling. "After all, you _thought_ it permissible to let her go out wandering by herself again just as soon as you'd found her!"

"She seemed fine! She was coherent and walking – and I believed she'd be safe at her family's lawyer's house at any rate! Especially with her nanny nearby to help should something new go wrong!" Victor stood up abruptly, shoving his chair back. "And I could have gone out and fetched her last night if you'd let me!"

"Let you go wandering around Whitechapel in the dead of night _after_ you'd hit Jack Splatter and publicly humiliated him?" Dr. Bumby laughed harshly. "Master Van Dort, you'd have likely been dead by the first light of dawn."

That – was probably true, but Victor didn't want to give him the point. "I am not a _child_, Dr. Bumby," he growled, hands tightening on the table. "I can take care of myself."

"Your being here suggests otherwise," Dr. Bumby retorted. "The mad always think they know best. Look at Alice, going off chasing useless old toys–"

"That rabbit means the world to her!"

"Which is precisely the problem! How is she supposed to forget her past when she clings so desperately to these remnants of it? All she's doing is retarding her own progress in her therapy. I'd say she's picked up some bad habits from you, but she was doing that before you came along." Dr. Bumby sighed and shook his head. "I should have gone and collected her myself once you came home. Damn the timing of that meeting. . . ."

"Why didn't you just cancel it?" Victor demanded, glad to turn the tables on the psychiatrist. It helped relieve a little of his own guilt about not going out to get her yesterday afternoon after realizing that, no matter how annoying and stubborn Radcliffe might be about returning her rabbit, Alice shouldn't have been away all morning. Though, granted, Dennis falling on a broken bottle in the courtyard and needing to have his leg stitched up had meant that he really couldn't have left the Home anyway. Still, maybe he could have tried to slip away after he was sure the doctor had things under control, instead of convincing himself she'd be back by supper and that she wouldn't have wanted him to leave the children. . . . Surely they would have been safe for a hour or so. . . .

_No, stop second-guessing yourself,_ he scolded himself. _You did the right thing. Leaving the children practically unattended, especially after such a painful accident, would have been criminal. Alice may not like them much, but she would have been angry with you for that, and rightfully so. No matter what Bumby says on the subject, you're an adult, and it was your responsibility to look after them. It's _his_ fault that he didn't even consider the idea of going to Radcliffe's to see what was the matter after supper, dark or no dark._

"You do not just cancel on the men I went to see, Victor," Dr. Bumby said. "I'd have thought you'd know something of that, your father being in business."

Victor was prevented from replying by a loud knock at the front door. Both men froze for a moment, staring at each other. Then Victor spun around and rushed to greet the visitor, hope rekindling in his heart. "Alice?" he asked as he yanked open the door.

It was indeed Alice – accompanied by a policeman. Victor blinked. _Oh dear. What's wrong now?_ "Er – h-hello, officer," he said slowly, concerned. "Is there a problem?"

"No problem – just got someone here who I believe belongs to Dr. Bumby," the policeman said, waving a hand at Alice.

Alice glared up at him, although her hard gaze was tinged with embarrassment. "I don't _belong_ to anybody," she muttered, hugging herself.

"Well, you're in his care. Close enough for us."

Dr. Bumby joined Victor at the door, frowning between his charge and the lawman. "Well now, what's this?" he asked, face severe. "Have you gotten yourself into trouble, Alice?"

"There's no charges, Doctor, if that's what you're worried about," the policeman assured him as Alice looked away. "Alice and Mr. Radcliffe just had a bit of a disagreement."

"What happened?" Victor asked, directing the question at Alice.

"He accused me of setting the fire!" Alice burst out, face ablaze with fury. "And he wouldn't give me either my rabbit _or_ the inquest report!"

"Chris and I were passing through Threadneedle after our morning coffee when Radcliffe comes barreling out of his house, yelling for help," the policeman added. "He grabbed us as soon as he saw us, saying Alice was having a 'psychotic episode' in his office and needed to be restrained. Chris went up to see what was what and found Alice rifling through the man's desk. Soon as she saw him, she bolted through the window. Girl can run when she wants to – led us on a merry chase over all those rooftops, didn't you Alice?" he asked her with a grin.

"I panicked," Alice admitted, eyes fixed on her shoes. "Thought I was about to be dragged back to the asylum. Can you blame me?"

"Course not – if I ever met someone who _didn't_ run, I'd ask what was wrong with them," the policeman said, chuckling. "Anyway, we caught her after a while – gave us the slip a couple of times, sneaking along ledges and gutters, but eventually we got her on some old couple's roof. She tried to run across one of those old scrap bridges they build between flats, but–"

"Collapsed almost directly under my feet," Alice confessed, shivering. "I had to grab onto Constable Hightopp here to avoid meeting a rather messy fate on the street."

Victor's stomach did a most unpleasant flip-flop as his mind unwillingly pictured the scene. Alice, racing across the rickety wooden bridge. . .the wood giving way in a shower of splinters beneath her buckled shoes. . . her hanging suspended in mid-air for a timeless moment. . .then tumbling to the hard cobbles below, screaming all the way. . . . "You're all right, though?"

"I'm not a pancake, so yes, quite all right," Alice assured him.

"Right, well, Radcliffe told us he didn't want to press charges, but he thought a little time in the cells might do her good," the policeman continued. "And we've been getting some reports in of her making a bit of a nuisance of herself, so we thought we ought to take her down to the station and ask her what she's been up to. We only meant to keep her for a couple of hours, but. . . ."

"But what?" Dr. Bumby said, lowering his brow.

"Well, we brought her down to the cells at the same time as some of the others were bringing down Jack Splatter."

"You caught him? Wonderful! For burning down the Mangled Mermaid and assaulting its owner, correct?" Victor asked, grinning vindictively. It wasn't usually in his nature to indulge in _schadenfreude_, but it did his heart good to think of Splatter rotting in gaol. And all because _he'd_ managed to send the pimp off to dreamland! _This is getting filed right next to sticking Barkis three times before he ever touched me in the memory banks._

"And for burying a cleaver in Long Tim Hargrove," Hightopp replied with a nod. "He was in a mood too – kept going on about how he was going to knock the head off some swell who'd punched him." Victor's smile lessened. "Can't believe a toff would be able to lay a finger on him, really. Must be losing his touch. Anyway, the minute he saw Alice, he tried to blame the lot on her."

"He _what_?!" As if he didn't like Jack Splatter enough!

Hightopp laughed. "Oh, she didn't take it lying down. Started calling him cur, leech, maggot – a fantastic line of inquiry, if I do say so." Alice smirked proudly.

"As fascinating as this is, it doesn't explain why she's coming home a day late," Dr. Bumby said, staring down the officer.

"Well, the thing is, sir, right as she was building up a good head of steam, she, uh, keeled over," Hightopp said, taking off his battered top hat and turning it in his hands. "I don't know if she hit her head or the excitement got to her, but she was out like a light. I didn't feel right sending her back in that state, so we kept her overnight to make sure she wasn't sick or nothing. Woke up this morning like nothing had happened, so here she is."

Victor stared at Hightopp, surprised. The policeman cared enough about Alice to keep an eye on her? Make sure she didn't hurt herself or go wandering off again in a fugue? _Well now – that's very kind of him,_ he thought, offering Hightopp a smile. _Maybe I've misjudged those on the local force a bit._

Judging by his tight-lipped scowl, Dr. Bumby didn't agree. "And you didn't even think to summon me?" he growled. "I believe that a young woman suffering a mild psychotic episode in your gaol is sufficient reason to call in a professional. Do you know the untold damage you might have just done to her psyche?"

"Dr. Bumby, with all due respect, how would they be able to tell?" Alice said, brushing a few strands of hair from her face.

Dr. Bumby's response was to grab her arm and yank her inside. "I'll deal with you later," he snapped. "As for you, officer – what's your name again?"

"Constable Harry Hightopp," the policeman said, frowning. "And I don't know about what you just said – we just wanted to make sure she was herself before we sent her home."

"Treating her when she's not herself is my entire job, Constable!"

Victor decided he didn't want to stick around for what was shaping up to be a nasty shouting match. He offered Alice his hand, which she took with a grateful smile. "How _are_ you feeling this morning?" he asked as they headed for the safety of her room.

"Fine – or, well, as fine as I get these days," Alice amended, swinging their arms. "Better than I was last night, I suppose. I'm not sure why I fainted myself – everything just suddenly went woozy, and before I knew it, I was waking up inside one of the cells to the stench of stale urine and old blood."

Victor bit back a wave of nausea. "Hope Splatter's enjoying that scent. . . . What happened with Mr. Radcliffe? Did you really send him screaming out of his house?"

"Yes, though I didn't mean to," Alice said, glaring at a picture of the Tweedle twins mounted on her wall. "He just made me so angry. . .I told him I knew he had my rabbit and that I wanted it back, and he refused to give it to me. Said that I wasn't in the right state of mind to have such a 'inflammatory object.' I told him that if he wouldn't return my toy, he could at least tell me all he knew about the fire. He complained that that was all I ever wanted to talk about – how shocking that I'd want to discuss such matters with the man who settled our estate and even identified my family since I wasn't able to – then reiterated that story about Dinah knocking over the lamp. I told him I knew that wasn't true, and he agreed with me. For a moment, I thought that, maybe, he was secretly on my side – then he asked me if I liked to play with matches as a girl." She sighed deeply. "I admit, after that I gave myself over to screaming my lungs out at him. Tried to snatch his papers from his desk, threatened to throw one of his precious Ming vases at his head. . . . That was when he retreated. I figured I'd search his study for the inquest report and my rabbit, then leave, but when Hightopp's partner showed up. . . ." Her cheeks flushed red. "I know I shouldn't have run, but they've said before they could run me in 'just for being off my nut.' I didn't want to risk it."

"Well, I can't say I blame you much for panicking – or for yelling," Victor said, shaking his head with a scowl. "What a thing to accuse you of! Does he seriously believe you started the fire?"

Alice's face crumpled into misery. "Well. . .maybe I did," she whispered, rubbing her arm as she stared at the floor.

"What?"

"I – I've been recovering memories lately, in Wonderland. Most of them have been simple things – little crystal houses and bottles and butterflies providing snippets here and there of the past– but two have appeared in the form of flaming doors bearing my family's name. And those. . . . The first one is barely worth mentioning – a completely unnecessary reminder that our library was a firetrap thanks to all of Papa's books and paper and photography equipment. But the second. . . ." She pressed her hand against her eyes, clearly doing her best to force back tears. "The night it all happened, I was the last one in the library, and the log I left on the fire – I don't know if it was really dead–"

Victor put his hands on her shoulders, turning her toward him. "Alice. It was an _accident_," he told her firmly. "You did _not_ kill your family."

Alice looked up at him, her normally-vivid green eyes dull. "How can you be so certain? You weren't there. You can't tell me if that log was dead or not."

"No, I can't," Victor admitted. "But I can tell you that I know you would have checked. You would have never done anything to deliberately hurt your family. Whatever happened, it was _not your fault._" He brushed a lock of hair away from her face. "Please, Alice – don't let the Jabberwock win _after_ he's died."

That got a smile. "Thank you," she whispered, pulling him into a hug. "Maybe I _should_ have taken you to Radcliffe's."

Victor wrapped his arms around her. "I would have been happy to accompany you," he assured her. "You need someone on your side."

"I'm quite grateful you're that someone." She pulled away, eyes light again and her usual smirk back in place. "And funny you should mention the Jabberwock – I ran across his skeleton in the Vale of Tears. Such a relief to know he's dead and gone for good, especially since my mind has recently enjoyed sticking his face everywhere."

"That is good news." Victor tilted his head, curiosity filling him. "Alice, what _has_ been going on in your mind? You mentioned dealing with a Carpenter on the ride to Radcliffe's. I don't think you've told me about him before."

"I don't think he was a person before – just a figure in the Tweedles' favorite poem," Alice replied, shaking her head. "And I bet the inhabitants of the Deluded Depths would have preferred that he and his Walrus companion had remained that way."

"The Deluded Depths?" Victor repeated, even more intrigued.

Alice nodded, grinning. "Filled with fish even you might like – and plenty of things I'm sure you wouldn't. . . ."

She started recounting her mental adventures to him, talking about places with names like Smelling & Regurgitating and Tundraful and creatures like mechanized dodos and a new breed of snark. Victor listened attentively, fascinated by the tale. Alice's way with words was amazing as always – although occasionally he had to interject with a puzzled question or comment: "Wait, the Duchess? I thought you said before she tried to eat you? . . .Oh, you don't understand it either, fair enough. . . ." "Tell me more about the memories, I'm having a hard time picturing them. . . ." "Eye fish. Alice, that's weird even for _you_." Still, even if everything she said didn't settle completely comfortably into his mind, it was a pleasure to listen to the story – and to understand, even in part, what exactly had happened to her. While her body had stumbled around the streets of London without plan or purpose, Alice had been incredibly busy battling her way across dangerous landscapes filled with monsters and attempting to locate the source of a fresh corruption infecting her mind. All of her journey so far seemed to center around the discovery of a new enemy called the Ruin, spread across Wonderland by a terrifying train constructed by the March Hare and the Dormouse. "Though I'm not entirely sure they meant to build what they did," Alice admitted. "They may not have ever been the sanest or nicest of creatures, but to try and destroy their own home. . .there's only one Wonderlander who's ever tried that, and last I knew, she was very, _very_ dead."

Victor's gaze flicked toward the crude doodle of a hedge maze marked with lopsided hearts tacked up nearby. "Do you think she's behind this – Infernal Train?"

"I don't think so," Alice said, rocking on her heels as she gazed thoughtfully past him. "The Ruins don't seem her style. She would have sent her Card Guards out against me – they were always her favorite foot soldiers." She shook her head. "Honestly, after fighting so many various forms of the wretched goop, I can say that they're utterly foreign to any place in Wonderland. They're more like gooey parasites that have burrowed into my mind."

"Like ticks or lice?"

"Yes, exactly." She shuddered. "That Colossal Ruin tearing itself up from the ground, all china arms and jagged metal and boiling ooze, is going to haunt my nightmares. Mostly because I know the next time I meet one, it's not going to run away once I've sufficiently wounded it."

Victor nodded with a shiver of his own. Thank God he wasn't stuck battling such monstrosities in his mind. Poor Alice. "Well, I wish you all the best in fighting them," he told her, putting a friendly hand on her shoulder. "And I hope you can get this infection cleared–"

"Alice!"

The pair started, heads jerking toward the door. Dr. Bumby stood there, arms folded, lips thin, eyes hidden behind the cold white discs of his glasses. "My office. _Now_," he growled. Turning his glare on Victor, he added, "And I'm sure _you_ can do something much more useful with your time than strengthen her memory of her hallucinations!"

"Dr. Bumby, we were just–" Alice started

"Just allowing yourself to sink back into unproductive thoughts and emotions! I can only imagine what horrors gaol has inflicted on your psyche!" Dr. Bumby grabbed her wrist and pulled her away. "_Upstairs_!"

"All right, all right! You don't need to drag me!" Alice snapped, yanking herself free of his grip. "I've got legs, you know." She shot Victor an apologetic look. "I'll see you later, then."

"Right." Victor sighed as the pair vanished from his sight. Oh lovely. It appeared Dr. Bumby was in a mood even worse than the one where he'd yelled at them for dancing together in the foyer. He could only imagine the hell Alice was going to catch in that office. _And here I thought her return was going to be a happy occasion,_ he thought as he headed back to his own room. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. _Don't be too hard on her, Dr. Bumby. _You're_ the one who refuses to treat those hallucinations, after all!_

* * *

Victor didn't see Alice again until suppertime – and when he did, he didn't like what he saw. Alice was very subdued, serving in silence and not looking at anyone. Victor tried to inquire about what had happened in Bumby's office as she gave him his supper, but she ignored him, sweeping past to deliver a plate to Reginald, and then sinking into her seat to pick at her own food. Dr. Bumby wasn't any better company – his mood hadn't improved at all from when he'd stormed into Alice's room, from what Victor could see. He attacked his meat viciously with his knife and glared at anyone who dared to make a noise. The children picked up on the danger and devoted themselves to finishing off their food as fast as possible to escape the storm lingering around their keeper. Between Alice's reticence and Bumby's foul temper, the meal proved to be silent as the grave – or, in Victor's more informed opinion, as silent as the grave would never be.

After everyone was finished, Alice hastily gathered up the plates and disappeared toward the kitchen. Victor waited until the children and Bumby left, then followed her. He lingered in the doorway as she dumped the dishes in the sink and began to scrub. Part of him wondered if it was really right to bother her – she was clearly quite upset – but he had to know if there was anything he could to do help. "Are – are you all right?" he finally asked, ready to flee at her command.

There was a long pause. "He told me he might send me back to Rutledge," she whispered at last, setting a plate aside to dry.

Victor's entire body went cold. "He what?" he said, breathless with shock.

Alice turned around, and to Victor's further astonishment her eyes were rimmed with red. "He said that he'd hoped I was strong enough to not give the hallucinations any footholds. That he trusted me to be able to tell what was real and what wasn't," she said, voice shaking. "And that he was very disappointed in me for letting my mind and body wander off like that. I told him that I didn't want to, that if I'd been able to fight it I would have, but he cut me off and said that if I was going to be a danger to myself and others, m-maybe it would be b-better if I were back in a. . .a. . . ." She bit down on her lower lip as tears began shining in her eyes. "And that he wasn't afraid to say I should be c-committed again if – if he really thought–"

Victor hurried toward her, pulling her into an embrace. "Oh, God, Alice. . . ."

"I'm not going back!" she shouted abruptly, her voice cracking. "Not to that hell! Not _ever_! I won't, I simply _won't_!" She grabbed him in a death grip, burying her face in his chest. "I want to be well again! I want to know what's real!"

Victor rubbed her back, feeling rather out of his depth. He'd comforted Alice during bad moments before, but this. . . . "I'm real," he said, for lack of anything better.

"I know you are." Alice sighed. "Why the hell do you care so much about a madwoman?"

"Because you're the smartest, funniest, kindest woman I've ever met," Victor said, stepping back and lifting her chin so he could look her in the face. "And the bravest." He took one of her hands in his, interlocking their fingers. "I don't care what anyone else says – you can beat this. I know you can." He offered up a smile – a shaky, nervous one, but a smile all the same. "Besides, by all accounts, I'm off my rocker too, so. . . ."

To his immense relief, that got a laugh. "Right, I'd nearly forgotten," she nodded. "You're the one who keeps going on about walking corpses who have better lives than most living people. You're crazier than I am." She squeezed his hand. "It's the two of us against the world, isn't it?"

"If that's the way you'd like it," Victor said, drawing her close again. "I wish I could help you more, though."

"You help me a lot," Alice said, pressing her ear against his chest. "I've been seeing you in Wonderland here and there. Remembering things we've done together. Thinking about how much you might enjoying seeing the Vale of Tears or the Tundraful sky." She sighed. "You'll have to draw me some more pictures."

"You are a most prolific muse, I assure you," Victor chuckled. He rubbed her back again. "But really. Anything I can do to help – all you need to do is ask."

"Thank you." Alice wiped her eyes. "Ugh – that was quite the production. I'd better get back to the dishes before Bumby realizes I've been slacking and decides I need another lecture." She pulled away, frowning. "And you'd better make yourself scarce, in case he discovers you and accuses you of driving me closer to insanity again."

"I suppose," Victor agreed, sighing. He didn't want to leave her alone – it seemed to him that she could really use a friend right now. Someone to coax more smiles and laughter out of her, to chase away the dark inside. But she was right about Dr. Bumby, unfortunately. If the walking storm caught them – well, Victor guessed he'd rather be struck by _real_ lightning. "You'll be all right?" he had to ask.

"I'll try," Alice said, going back to the dishes. "At any rate, I'm going to do my absolute best to ignore any Wonderland visitors from now on. Dr. Bumby has a point – I really can't keep letting my brain flutter off to other worlds while the rest of me wanders about unchecked. I dread to think what I did while I was not all there. . . ." She shook her head with a scowl. "If Wonderland wants to trouble me while I'm sleeping, fine. I can handle regular dreams. But the waking world will be for London only."

Victor nodded, although he couldn't help feeling just a touch sorry he wouldn't be getting any more stories of her dreamland anytime soon. "I'll help keep you grounded, then."

"Thank you. And Victor?" She turned her head toward him, smiling. "Feel free to scold any hallucination I might have."

Victor laughed. "You have my word."

Alice nodded and resumed her task. Victor left her to it, his heart a little lighter. It had been a trying week, to be sure – the most trying of his life. But maybe, just maybe, things could start getting back to normal.


	12. Not Quite Getting Back To Normal

Chapter 12

September 16th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

2:59 P.M.

_Goodness, they've been in there a while. What's going on between them? Should I – no, no, I shouldn't eavesdrop. That would make me one of Madam Sharpe's lurkers, I'm sure. Not to mention the trouble I'd be in if I got caught. Although. . .is it really any worse than wearing a groove in the floorboards just outside the door? Maybe I'm already a lurker. Perhaps I should go find something else to do. . . ._ Victor glanced at the entrance to Dr. Bumby's office, then resumed his pacing. _No. There's no point in abandoning my post now. Even if it does make me a bit of a creeper, I have to know what's going on. I just hope she hasn't had another episode – though I'm pretty sure I would have heard that regardless of where I was. Oh dear, I just want to stop worrying about her for five seconds. . . ._

Just as Victor was wondering if he shouldn't give in to the burgeoning madness and start literally climbing the walls, the door at last opened. Alice stepped out of the room, looking – rather confused, to be honest. Victor studied her expression intently. She didn't seem upset, and her eyes were clear and focused – that was a good sign. But, knowing how mercurial her sanity could be, he wasn't about to leave anything to chance. "Alice? How'd it go in there?" he asked, hurrying to her side.

Alice frowned up at him. "Wonderland wouldn't let me in."

Victor blinked a few times. Well – that wasn't what he had expected. In fact, that was about the _last_ thing he had expected. "Beg pardon?"

"Dr. Bumby put me under – though it took longer than normal this time, I kept getting distracted by thinking 'I've seen this key of his somewhere else, I know I have,' bloody brain – and we did the usual 'go to Wonderland' 'I don't really want to' 'go anyway' business. But then – well, normally, that's when a bit of Wonderland pops up. Usually the barren wastes of the Land of Fire and Brimstone or the fleshy underbelly of Queensland," she added with a grumpy sigh. "But today – nothing. No matter how Dr. Bumby prodded, no matter how I tried – and I actually _tried_ this time – it just wouldn't let me in. I spent most of my session standing in a sea of featureless black, unable to find my way at all."

"Featureless black?" A shudder slithered down Victor's spine as a certain memory suddenly thrust itself back into his consciousness: _"Just you, me, and the darkness. . .nothing more, nothing less. . . . You don't like that? Why not? . . .Ah. Childish nightmares are some of the things we're working on_ rejecting_, Master Van Dort. Darkness always has its place. The golden mean is the ideal of life, and that means balancing light _and_ dark. . . . Well then, why don't you let me prove it to you? Tell me more about that dream of yours. . . ." And then – blackness and voices and oh dear God make it stop – _

Victor shoved the images away. _Over with – that is _over with_,_ he reminded himself._ Alice helped you past that – how about you concentrate on returning the favor? _"T-that doesn't sound pleasant," he said, swallowing.

"Well, no, it wasn't," Alice said, giving him a sympathetic look. "Though if you'll excuse me for saying so, it's still better than avoiding being blasted by giant drops of boiling hot tea while I attempt to leap my way over a river of lava." Victor, having never been in that situation, could only shrug. "But given what's transpired over the last week, it's rather peculiar, isn't it? Every domain in Wonderland is being threatened with complete annihilation – you'd think it would want me to hurry back as fast as I can. I'm honestly surprised it's let me be lucid for this long." She glanced back at the open door of the office. "Dr. Bumby's just as confused, it seems. I asked him what it meant that I couldn't find my way back into Wonderland, and he actually said he didn't know."

"Really?" This was serious. If there was any phrase Dr. Bumby hated, it was "I don't know." The good doctor liked to have an answer for everything. For him to actually confess to confusion. . . . "It is a puzzle, though," Victor agreed. "Wonderland keeps you captive for about a week, allowing you only one small glimpse of reality between trips – and then, once you're back here, it just closes the door on you?"

Alice shrugged. "Don't ask me to make sense of the place. Every time I try, I just end up with a headache. Usually because something managed to grab me and is chewing on it."

Was it wrong to smile at that? Alice herself was smirking, so Victor guessed not. "Well, you did say you were determined to stay in the real world while awake – maybe it's actually obeying you for a change," he suggested. "I mean, it is your head. It ought to listen to you on occasion."

"It should, but I doubt that's the reason," Alice sighed. "I think it's more likely it only lets me in on its own terms. My first two visits were accidents, after all. And both the asylum trip and this last one were forced upon me." She shook her head. "I guess if Wonderland's not dragging me in by my ear, it doesn't want me around at all."

"Hmph. You need an internal world that has more manners, Alice."

"Don't I know it." Alice's lips quirked up slightly. "Still, if this means a decrease in hallucinations and wandering around London making a nuisance of myself, I'll live with it. I doubt you want to go chasing me all over Whitechapel again."

"Hardly," Victor allowed, grimacing as he thought about his week from hell. He patted her shoulder. "Hopefully we can take this as a sign that you're starting to get better again."

"I wouldn't get my hopes up. Counting chickens before they've hatched prevents one from making some decent omelettes."

"Perhaps – but someone's got to have hope around here, and it may as well be me," Victor declared, straightening up and trying to look serious and determined.

Alice giggled. "Well, thank you. Takes the burden off me." She tilted her head, examining him through squinted eyes. "Though, speaking of possibly seeing things – is it just me, or has your hair gotten longer?"

"Probably," Victor confessed, feeling the back of his head. "I haven't had a trim since I came here." He gave her a half-smile. "As you might imagine, I'm reluctant to let anyone around here near me with anything sharp."

"Wise move," Alice assured him. "But if you're willing to trust me, I can probably snip off an inch or two for you."

Something inside Victor whispered, _What if she has an episode and thinks the scissors are her Vorpal Blade? Do you want to end up like old Mr. Clipper the barber in the Land of the Dead?_ Looking at her face, however, revealed no signs of instability. Just friendliness – and, maybe, deep in her eyes, a desperate desire _to_ be trusted. _Even if she said she wouldn't take offense at being declined, it might deal a blow to our friendship. Besides, it's just a trim._

_Oh, like letting her go to Radcliffe's was 'just a visit?' _his internal voice snarked.

_Be fair – the problem there didn't stem from her going mad, now did it? Besides, my only other option is that Barker fellow on Fleet Street, and he's a bit of a – well, scissors in the head might be preferable to listening to him prattle on about how perfect his wife and daughter are. _"I'd be much obliged, thank you."

* * *

September 26th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

3:21 P.M.

"Hey! Postman's here!"

"I'm coming!" Victor called back, setting down his quill. He hurried into the front foyer to find Elsie accepting a letter. "What have we got?" he asked, crouching down beside her as she closed the door.

Elsie smirked at him as she handed over the envelope. "Somebody's gonna have to take pills," she sing-songed.

"What?" Victor looked at the writing on the front. His mother's familiar hand stared back at him, neatly addressing the letter inside to one Dr. Angus Bumby. His stomach did a cartwheel across his abdomen. "Oh no." He'd been dreading his parents' reply to Dr. Bumby's request from the moment the doctor had first mentioned it. He flipped the letter over and looked at the seal, wondering if he dared break it. _It is technically about me. . .but then again, do I even want to know what they've said?_

"Victor? Is that the post?"

Victor's head snapped up to see Dr. Bumby peering over his shoulder. How on earth did this man keep sneaking up on him? "Y-yes, it is," he said, straightening up and reluctantly handing over the letter. "For you, sir."

Dr. Bumby took the envelope, smiling as he saw the return address. "Ah – I've been waiting for this," he said, opening it. "And I'm sure you have too. Now, let's see. . . ."

He scanned through the letter as Victor waited nearby, squeezing his hands together to stop them from fidgeting. After an absolutely agonizing two minutes, Dr. Bumby finally looked up, scowling. "Hmmm. Apparently your parents are not as interested in your mental health as I had hoped."

Victor's heart gave a leap. They'd said no? His mother had actually said _no_? "May I see the letter?" he asked, as politely as possible.

Dr. Bumby handed it over, shaking his head. "You may as well – but return it to me once you're done. I'll need it to craft an adequate reply." He hit Victor with his most severe look. "And don't even think about hiding or destroying it. Yes, I know you're not a child," he continued as Victor started to protest, "but you're still under _my_ care, which makes _me_ responsible for you. Which also means I have permission to punish you if necessary."

Victor felt impotent frustration crawl through his veins. Why was it he was still being treated as a third-class citizen? He wasn't some drooling idiot sitting in the corner of Rutledge – he was an intelligent twenty-year-old perfectly capable of taking care of himself! He'd successfully managed the streets of the East End on his search for Alice, hadn't he? Couldn't someone recognize that already? _I'm starting to think I should invest some of my meager allowance into a punching bag,_ he thought, resisting the urge to crumple the letter in his fist._ I could pretend it's everyone who doesn't think I'm capable of surviving in Whitechapel after almost half a year._

However, saying that would just invite more trouble onto his head than he already had. Best not to antagonize the beast. "I understand, sir," he said with cold, careful control. "I promise nothing will happen to this letter."

Dr. Bumby nodded, satisfied, and went on his way. Elsie stood on tip-toe, trying to get a look at the pages in Victor's hand. "Huh! Your parents don't care if you're sick or not, do they?"

"Oh, I'm sure they do," Victor said, skimming through the contents of the missive. His mother started off with her usual simpering toward anyone with any power over her, thanking Dr. Bumby for all he was doing for their "recalcitrant son" and how she and her husband were just shocked there hadn't been a turnaround yet. _"I never thought he was the rebellious sort before – then again, I also thought he was afraid of everything when he was growing up. How people change! We're terribly sorry for all the trouble he's caused you – I'll make sure you get a special bonus in your next cheque for putting up with him for so long. _

"_As to your question about starting more radical treatments, I personally would love to authorize you to try anything and everything that brilliant mind of yours could devise to cure Victor. We're all quite tired of him absolutely refusing to see sense. The trouble is my husband. Apparently my son gets his weak nerves from William, I'm sad to say. I've always thought him an intelligent man, but he had a completely irrational fit of anxiety over the word "radical." Said it sounded like you wanted to send our boy away to the madhouse. I tried to reassure him that that couldn't be your intent – and even if it was, then it was only for Victor's own good – but he just wouldn't listen to reason! I knew the illness ran in his side of the family. . . ._

"_But don't worry too much, Dr. Bumby. I sat him down for a good long talk the other day, and it appears he's not as opposed as I feared. He wants our son to get well as much as I do, he claimed – he just doesn't like the word 'radical.' He wants to know exactly what it is you plan to do to Victor to get his mind back in the proper order. I confess to my own curiosity on this subject – though not enough to stop you from whatever you have in mind – so if you could send us the details of your proposed treatment, that would go a long way toward settling my husband's nerves and finally bringing an end to this unhappy affair."_

Victor breathed a quiet sigh of relief, passing over his mother's closing remarks. _Whew! Saved by the skin of my teeth, it looks like._ _Thank you for that moment of pause, Father!_ "They truly do care about the state of my head," he added to Elsie, who continued to look dubious. Not that he blamed her. "They just don't want me doing anything without them knowing precisely what it is."

"Who doesn't?" Alice asked as she entered the room.

"My parents," Victor told her. "They just sent a letter."

"Ah, yes, your lovely mother and father who sent you here to rot. What have they forbidden you from doing now? Running away and taking a job in a factory to earn your bread?"

"They forbade that long ago," Victor said, giving her a smile. "No, it's not me they've stymied this time – it's Dr. Bumby. I've gotten a reprieve, Alice. No pills or extra sessions, not yet. Father's nerves failed him in this instance."

"Ah! Lucky," Alice said with genuine cheer. "Those pills still taste horrid, and you and Bumby fight enough during your regular sessions. You'd probably end up killing each other if you had to meet more often. I'm glad you're safe."

"So am I – though a little nervous still," Victor confessed, looking back down at the letter. "Mother's already given her blanket approval for anything Dr. Bumby might have in mind. If she and the doctor can convince Father – and I know Mother won't stop until he says yes. . . ." He let out a sigh. "You think any factories around here _would_ hire me?"

"They don't accept mad people," Elsie declared, shaking her head.

"Little one has a point, I'm afraid – just by living here, you've been stained with the mark of insanity," Alice said with a sympathetic grumble. "And that's a hard one to wash out. I think you'll have to be dependent upon your parents' allowance and goodwill for a while more."

"That's what I was afraid of," Victor muttered.

"Well, we're always told we're never given more burdens to shoulder than we're able to bear," Alice said philosophically. "Which is–"

She stopped, her eyes darting toward the table behind Victor. She stared wide-eyed at the papers and books for a moment, then scowled and wrenched her attention back to her friend. "Which is probably nonsense, but comforting nonsense, at least." Her eyes traveled back over his shoulder, as if drawn by magnets. ". . .Do you mind if we go out for a walk together? I need to pick up dinner anyway."

"What's on the table?" Elsie sing-songed again, grinning.

"Nothing," Alice said firmly, though she seemed unable to stop looking at said 'nothing.' "Nothing whatsoever."

Uh-oh. "Nothing indeed," Victor agreed, fighting the urge to turn around and give the table a hard glare of his own. _Oh dear – I've spent too much time around her. Although I guess no one can blame me, given those hallucinations nearly sent her to her death. . . ._ "And I'd be delighted to take a walk with you, Alice. Let me just drop this letter in Dr. Bumby's office, and we'll be off."

"Thank you," Alice said, pure gratefulness on her features.

"Aren't you gonna tell it to go away, Victor?" Elsie asked, sounding a bit disappointed. "You're good at that, aren't you?"

"There's nothing to talk to," Alice insisted, folding her arms. "We don't shout at invisible things around here anymore."

Elsie stuck out her lower lip in a pout. "But it was so funny when he did it with the Boojum. Even you laughed."

"That was – do you lot _want_ me back in Rutledge?" Alice demanded, eyes narrowed. "I could yell at _you_ to go away, if you like."

"Fine, fine. . . ." The little girl walked away, muttering to herself.

Victor waited until she was well out of the room, then put a hand on Alice's shoulder. "You did say I was free to scold–" he started in a whisper.

Alice cut him off with a violent shake of the head. "_No_. I know I said that, but – I'm not even going to give it the pleasure of acknowledgment," she whispered back. "That'll only encourage the dratted things. Please, let's just get out of this house."

"With pleasure." Deciding Dr. Bumby could find the letter in the foyer as well as he could in his office, Victor tossed it onto the table and took Alice's arm. _Normality it is – though I can't help but hope I hit whatever it was she was seeing,_ he thought as they went outside. "So, what _is_ on the menu for dinner?"

* * *

October 9th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

1:15 P.M.

"Thank you for your business, sir!"

"You're welcome!" Victor said, giving the salesman a cheerful nod as he accepted his cup. The thick white liquid inside glistened like cream – _a very good sign, _Victor thought as he wandered down the street so that the next customer could get her drink. Normally he wasn't one for Whitechapel street food – most of it looked unappetizing to a palate used to the absolute best, and Alice had shared a few horror stories about mouse droppings standing in for raisins in plum duff and dirty laundry tubs doubling as ginger beer breweries – but it appeared that the donkey's milk man was honest enough. And the treat was welcome today – he'd spent most of his morning chasing the children around Houndsditch's concrete yard, trying to amuse them and keep them out of Alice and Dr. Bumby's hair. _I don't think I've sweated this much since I ran into the Mangled Mermaid,_ he thought, taking a sip of the milk as he stood near the opening of one of the many alleys that crisscrossed the East End. _Mmmm – this is quite good, actu– _

A hand reached out of the alleyway and clamped onto his shoulder, dragging him inside. "Hello, _swell_."

Victor, on the verge of voicing a protest, froze. That voice – oh dear God, he'd hoped not to hear it for a good long while yet. "Splatter?" he whispered. "Aren't – aren't you s-supposed to be in gaol?"

"Finally got meself out," Jack Splatter growled. "They talked about wanting to hang me – over Long Tim, what a crock – but that bunter Annette finally dumped enough money into the chief's coffers to let me off. I'm down a good forty pounds thanks to you, Van Dort." His fingers tightened painfully on Victor's shoulder. "And I think I'm gonna take it out of your ass."

"If it's a-all the same to you, I'd rather pay in money," Victor said, directing a weak smile over his shoulder. Perhaps it sounded flip, but he was perfectly willing to empty his wallet if it meant getting out of here in one piece.

"Ain't all the same to me," Splatter responded, meeting his smile with a glare. "I was a laughingstock in the cells thanks to you! 'That swell nobbled Splatter' – well, that swell's gonna see what Jack Splatter's made of now!"

_Damn it! _Victor thought, his insides trying to curl up on themselves. _I knew I'd be in trouble with him, but not so soon! Well – I've certainly nothing left to lose._ He wrenched out of Splatter's grip and whirled around, dropping his cup and aiming a fist at the pimp's face.

Unfortunately, Splatter had anticipated this – he ducked the punch, then followed up by ramming his own fist into Victor's jaw. Victor yelped as the hit connected, sending a shockwave of pain through his skull. _Ow! Still, could have been worse – _And then Splatter's sharp-toed shoe slammed into his right leg._ Like that._

Jack Splatter laughed as Victor stumbled backward. "Don't like it when it's you on the other end of the hit, do you, you blooming toff?" he said, watching Victor clutch at his injured shin. "Well, you're gonna like this even less." He smirked, drawing out a large meat cleaver stained with old blood. "Don't worry, though – filthy rich boy like yourself can live without a few fingers, right?"

Victor's heart nearly stopped beating. _No no no no no,_ he thought wildly, bunching his hands into terrified fists as he moved back another step._ Have to get out of here, I have to get out of here – _His eyes flicked toward the alley entrance – could he run fast enough with his leg throbbing like this? Probably not – in fact, he'd wager that's why Splatter had kicked him. _And I think he stuffed part of a brick or something in the toe,_ he thought, wincing. _It really shouldn't hurt this badly. . . ._

"Go 'head, try to run," Splatter taunted, following his gaze. "Think anyone out there would care? They'd probably just throw you back in here with me." Splatter's hand darted out and caught Victor's wrist. "Not like I'm letting you loose anyway," he added, spinning them around so that he blocked the alley entrance. Victor tripped and fell from the force of the sudden turn, crashing painfully onto the cobbles. "Maybe I'll just put this here blade right between your shoulders, see what happens. . . ."

Victor's eyes darted all around the alley as Splatter began advancing on him. No – he was not going to stay here and be butchered like a hog by this perverted pimp! But Splatter stood between him and freedom, and behind him was a solid stone wall. There just wasn't anywhere else to go, except –

Up.

Quick as a wink, Victor jumped to his feet, grabbed onto the wall closest to him and started climbing. His sensitive fingers, used to these sorts of situations, informed him of every useful crack and handhold, and soon he was quite far up the aged brick. His bruised leg protested as he pushed himself farther toward the sky, but he ignored it. Better to suffer a little pain now than to die on the cobbles – or worse, be forced to give up his precious piano for life.

Splatter started at Victor's sudden action, unable to comprehend for a moment what was happening. "What the hell are you – hey, get back here!" He tried to grab onto the young man's ankle, but Victor kicked him off and soon ascended out of reach. "You really think it's that easy to get away from me, swell?" the pimp demanded.

_I certainly hope it is!_ Victor thought, glancing down at the pimp. He took a brief breather, clinging to the wall like a spider, before continuing his climb. _Come on, come on. . . ._

"You–" Splatter tried to climb up after him, but soon found that his calloused hands didn't offer the same advantages Victor's did. He struck the wall with the cleaver in frustration, sending out a shower of sparks. "I ain't losing to no swell! Go on, keep going – I'll meet you on the roof and whack your hands off there!"

The pimp vanished from the alley, eyes full of rage-induced determination. Victor clung to the bricks, counting down three minutes under his breath to allow Splatter the time to find a way into the building and maybe even start up the stairs. Then he hastily climbed back down a few feet before dropping off the wall, landing in a heap on the ground. He sprang to his feet (ignoring his leg's loud complaints) and limped off as fast as he could toward Houndsditch, hoping and praying Splatter was either dim enough or angry enough to not immediately realize the trick.

Luck was with him – he made it to the safety of the Home without being further molested. Better yet, the one to meet him was Alice, outside sweeping the front steps. She looked up as he approached, then did a double take. "Victor! What–"

"Splatter," Victor said, rubbing his jaw and wincing. Oh yes – he'd be sporting some nice bruises for a while. "Looking for a bit of revenge. Fortunately I managed to get away before he could do much worse."

"I see." Alice gently took his chin, examining his face. "Hmmmm. Still worth knocking him on his arse?"

Victor thought. For a moment, he was back in front of the Mermaid, knuckles throbbing as bone cracked against bone and the pimp was sent flying backward. _"That swell just nobbled Splatter!" _echoed in his ears, followed shortly by, _"Can't believe a toff would be able to lay a finger on him, really. Must be losing his touch," _and _"I was a laughingstock in the cells thanks to you!" _Despite his pain, he grinned. "Yes."

* * *

October 16th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

10:46 A.M.

"That is _it_!"

Victor jumped as he heard the shout from the front foyer. Poking his head around the doorway, he found Alice glaring at the table – or, rather, at a point a couple of feet above it. "I am _trying_ to get on with a normal life, you know!" she continued, folding her arms. "Or are you lot determined that I see the inside of a madhouse again?"

Ah. Victor sighed as he came inside. "Who is it?" he asked.

Alice glanced at him. "The Cheshire Cat," she said, almost grinding her teeth together. "Asking me why I'm wallowing in Whitechapel when there's things to do."

Victor put a comforting hand on her shoulder, then frowned at the spot where he guessed, in Alice's mind, the Cat sat. "Look, she's had a very trying time of it, and it's not exactly like Wonderland is being all that welcoming," he scolded the air. "Can't you just leave her be?"

He of course heard no answer, but Alice did. "He says that, if he had his way, he'd be lying by a warm hearth with a full belly," she said, rolling her eyes. "But circumstances forbid. You know, I bet the Duchess would take you back, mangy old thing. You're too thin for her to even consider for the stewpot." A pause. "No, you do _not_ have more meat on your bones than Victor – and he's not 'tall, dark, and dead-looking.' According to him, dead people are blue."

Victor sighed again as he watched Alice argue with the imaginary creature. Why did this have to happen? She'd been so good about ignoring her hallucinations – it was still pretty obvious she was seeing things, granted, what with the way her eyes kept flicking to shadowy corners and empty windows, but she'd stopped herself from engaging with any of them. Something deep inside of her must have snapped today. Victor supposed he couldn't blame her – being tormented by beings invisible to everyone else, beings you _knew_ did not exist, had to be incredibly trying. Not to mention she was still dealing with foul-tasting pills and overly-aggressive therapy sessions. . .maybe the true surprise was that she hadn't started yelling at empty tables earlier. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked her, gesturing vaguely at the table.

"Not unless you know how to make a Cat who is thinner than your average skeleton stop pestering me about it being the time to reenter Wonderland," Alice sighed.

"Well, I'm sure I could get a tin of fish from the local market. . . ."

That got a giggle. "Unfortunately, he's not the type to be tempted by food. He eats little enough as it is."

"I'm sure." Victor frowned, regarding the table. "Why is he the one who's pestering you, anyway? You're late, you're late – isn't this more the White Rabbit's job?"

"It is, isn't it? Where _is_ Rabbit?" Alice asked, arching an eyebrow. "Did he really die on that river? I hope not, it was hard enough the first time he – passed away. . . ." She listened to an answer audible only to her ears, then groaned. "Yes, that _would_ be the case. . . ."

"What?" Victor inquired, puzzled.

"He's said that it's up to me whether he's dead or not, and if I want to know for sure, I ought to go fetch him." She rubbed her forehead. "Which means Radcliffe's again. Well, it's been a month, perhaps we can talk a bit more civilly. I won't even mention the fire – I'll just beg for my toy."

"You're sure you want to go back?" Victor had to ask. "After the mess last time?"

"I want my rabbit," Alice said, looking up at him with tired eyes. "Maybe if I get it, some of the hallucinations will stop. And even if they don't, at least I'll have something to hug when they upset me." She smiled a little. "Well, besides you."

Victor smiled back. "I'm always happy to offer." He patted her on the shoulder. "Though I really think I should come this time. If he does get distracted by me being from money, maybe you can slip away and try to find your rabbit."

"I honestly don't intend to make a scene. . .but you're right, you should come along," she agreed, touching his fingers. "I don't want to have another episode – not without someone I trust there to keep me from wandering off."

"Me either," Victor said, his legs aching with the memory of walking all over Whitechapel. "All right then, let's go and get this over with. Fetch your poor White Rabbit back to Wonderland."

"Indeed. Not quite complete without him there." Alice led the way out the door. The day was overcast and gloomy, although the clouds above didn't quite promise rain – only hinted at it. "I should thank you for being such a good sport about all this," she added as they began walking in the general direction of Threadneedle Street. "I know I don't always make the most sense. You're shockingly tolerant of all my talk of Wonderland."

"Well, you weave such fantastic stories," Victor told her, smiling. "It's hard not to get wrapped up in them. Maybe they don't always make sense, but – I still love hearing about the Vale of Tears, or the Hatter's Domain, or any of it. Even if I sometimes don't get what you're saying." He nudged her gently. "Besides, you put up with my talk of the Land of the Dead."

"Take what you said and switch it around for me," Alice replied with a grin. "I confess, though, that I still find it gruesome they'll eat each other's body parts."

"I confess I still have a hard time picturing what exactly a Boojum is," Victor said with a sheepish grin. "Even having yelled at one once."

"If the Insane Children ever relinquish my art skills, I'll draw _you_ a picture for a change."

"It would be appreciated. . .but still, I don't need to understand all the details to know I love the world," Victor continued. "And I do try to keep as open a mind as I can about these things. After all, I've already had a lot of my previous expectations about reality smashed to pieces."

"Well, don't get too credible. You don't want to lose your family fortune to–"

"Merow. . . ."

Alice's head snapped forward. "You again!"

"What?" Victor said, blinking at the sudden shift in topic.

Alice pointed. A few paces before them, a white cat sat on the cobbles, grooming itself with its tongue. "I've seen that cat before! In fact, it led me practically straight to Witless the day my madness returned in full! And it was on the Billingsgate docks when I was pulled from the water!"

"Really? I never saw it," Victor said, frowning.

"Well, it ran off when I tried to approach it. . .what do you want this time, puss?" Alice asked, hands on her hips.

The cat got up and padded over to them, winding its way around Victor's legs. Victor watched as it rubbed up against him. "Well, it seems to like me. . . ."

"Oh, puss – all this time I've been chasing you, and you choose _him_ to lavish affection on?" Alice shook her finger at the feline. "Naughty cat."

The cat just blinked at her, bright yellow eyes full of innocence. Then it walked away from the pair, tail twitching as it went up the street. It stopped at the intersection, looking back with a very demanding stare. Alice shook her head. "Oh no. Unless you're going to Radcliffe's–"

"Oi! Swell!"

Victor felt his heart skip a couple of beats. "Oh damn," he whispered, grabbing Alice's hand and intending to run down an alley.

It was too late, though – Jack Splatter was already on them, this time accompanied by a meaty crony the size of a small privy (and smelling much the same too). This animate side of beef seized Alice, pinning her arms behind her back, as Splatter snatched Victor's wrist, squeezing it hard enough to leave red marks on his skin. "You ain't getting away from me this time, Van Dort," Splatter snarled. "No funny business! I always get what I'm owed!"

"Leave him alone!" Alice yelled, struggling viciously against her captor.

"Or you'll do what?" Splatter said with a mocking smile, drawing a knife as Victor tried desperately to pull away. "Set that cheese-cat of yours on me? You want to end up like your Nanny, dogsbody?"

"Leave her out of this!" Victor yelled, clawing at Splatter's hand.

"Don't worry, cannery king," Splatter smirked. "I just want her to see what happens to those who hurt me feelings. Seems she didn't get the message last time." Ignoring Victor's frantic attempts to free himself, he raised his knife.

"ROWR!"

A blur of white rocketed into Splatter's face, snarling and yowling. It took Victor a moment to identify it as the cat, now in a mindless rage. Splatter screamed in surprise and pain, releasing Victor's wrist and dropping the knife as he tried to yank the cat off his head. His crony gaped at the scene, letting his grip on Alice slacken. Alice wasted no time in nailing him in the crotch with her foot and pulling herself free. She and Victor promptly took off running as the man fell to his knees with a groan. "All right, I think we've come to the point where this isn't worth the pleasure of you punching him!" she shouted.

"I thought he'd be in gaol for longer!" Victor shouted back. "Trust me, I don't want to deal with this every time I step outside either!"

A streak of white fur passed between them as the cat gave up its attack on Splatter and joined the pair in flight. It slammed itself into the side of Victor's leg, almost making him trip. "Ow! What the–" He stopped as the cat cut in front of him and ran right, down a nearby alley. "Why–"

Alice paused too, a strange look on her face. For a moment, her brow crinkled, as if she was trying to drag something up from the depths of her mind. Then she shook her head. "Follow it."

"What?!"

"Follow it! Jack wants you, not me, and I bet the cat knows it – and knows a good place to hide! I'll go on to Radcliffe's – even if Jack is interested in me, he rarely ventures toward the West End." She darted down the left-hand way, waving at him. "Go! I'll meet you on Threadneedle Street – and I promise I won't stir from Radcliffe's house until you get there!"

Victor was about to protest, but strong, angry footsteps behind him made him realize he didn't have much of a choice. He darted after the cat, who was waiting near the end of the alley. It took off again as he caught up, leading him down another street and into a tiny gap between a cheese shop and a bookstore. Victor squeezed in after the feline, certain that even if Jack did notice him in this dark, secluded spot, there was no way the broader pimp could follow him inside. He sighed deeply (or as deep as he could) as he pressed his back against the cheese shop's creaking wood. "Oh no. . .I so didn't want us to get separated. . . ."

The cat climbed up his leg, settling on his shoulder and rubbing its cheek against his. Victor frowned at it. "You know, you're an awfully intelligent and tricky feline. Almost like Alice's descriptions of the Cheshire Cat. Though you're rather plain to be his London disguise."

The cat blinked at him, cocking its head to the side. Victor's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps I've just gone among mad people too long, but – if you _are_ Cheshire in some way, shape, or form – I'm blaming _you_ if she's not at Radcliffe's."

The cat mewed and jumped off his shoulder, going to sit at the mouth of the gap. Victor turned his gaze to the stormy sky, waiting for Splatter and his hired meat to pass him by so he could escape. _How do I keep getting into these sort of situations? Ugh. . . ._ He closed his eyes and bit his lip. _Please, please,_ please_,_ he begged whoever might be listening. _Don't let this turn into a repeat of the last time she left me behind!_

* * *

_**You can thank Thedarkcountess1993 for the bit about Victor's hair needing a trim, and CoriOreo for the subplot about Splatter's revenge.**  
_


	13. An Unpleasant Return

Chapter 13

October 16th, 1875

Threadneedle Street, London's West End, England

11:10 A.M.

"Did I rip his head off? I. . .wanted to. . . ."

Alice rubbed her face, trying to clear the cobwebs from her mind. What had happened? Why was she on the floor? She closed her eyes a moment, trying to remember. Radcliffe had buzzed her into the house. . .she'd gone up to his office. . .seen her rabbit sitting on his desk, bold as brass. . .listened to that bastard lawyer tell her that she'd abandoned it at Rutledge. . .and then, just before she could retort that she'd been rushed out the door so fast she hadn't had time to make sure it was properly packed, it all went black. Had she fainted again? _I'm making an awful habit of that,_ she thought muzzily, blinking. _What will Radcliffe think? Ugh, he'll probably use it as another pretext to deny me my rabbit! Bastard, shoving it in my face like that. . .what does he need with a toy rabbit anyway? Has he adopted it as some sort of good luck charm? Would explain why he had it on his desk, I suppose. _She picked herself up, the world coming into clearer focus around her as her brain kicked back into gear. _Well, it's part of _my _inheritance, so he'd – _

_he'd. . . ._

Alice's jaw dropped as her surroundings finally registered. She was still in Radcliffe's office, but – the room was utterly trashed. Crooked boards covered the windows, the fireplace was dark and cold, a pile of books cocooned in dust teetered by a similarly-afflicted desk, and two chairs – the only other furnishings in the room – lay in pieces on the floor. By the look of things, no one had been living here for at least a month, if not longer. _What the – how long was I out?! _Alice thought, regaining her feet. _Where's Radcliffe? And my rabbit? Were they ever even here? What is going on?!_

The only answer to her questions was a jolt of pain across her skull. Alice winced and pressed a hand to her forehead, squeezing her temples. "What's left of my brain will explode," she muttered, reaching out to touch the desk. It seemed solid enough under her fingers – but then, she could say the same of the Vorpal Blade. "Is it mad to pray for better hallucinations?"

The empty office gave her no reply. Alice sighed. "This is what I get for listening to that mangy feline," she muttered. "Perhaps I'm fated to expire right here."

Well – there was one bright spot to discovering she was madder than ever. Without Radcliffe here to summon the police, she was free to poke around. There wasn't much to poke at, granted, but perhaps the desk held something of interest – the inquest report? She pulled open the drawers, but found nothing but dirt and – in the case of the left one – rat droppings. She slammed them closed, annoyed. "I come all this way, dodging being made an example of by Jack Splatter no less, and my solicitor's done a vanishing act. It really does just figure." She let out a sigh. "I guess all I can do at this point is wait for Victor out front and tell him we're out of luck."

Her insides did a little flip-flop at the thought of her friend. Was he all right? Had Splatter caught up with him after they'd split up? Or had he found someplace to hide? She really hoped it was the latter – the former scared her more than words could say. "I hope I was right to trust you, cat," she muttered. "Otherwise we're going to have words."

She left the long-empty office and headed back downstairs. The rest of the house was in the same distressingly poor shape – the wallpaper hung in tatters, the staircase balustrade was missing pieces here and there, and there were old broken bottles and tattered bits of clothing in every corner. No Ming vases, no katanas, no fancy sculptures or ornamental tea sets. Every last artifact Radcliffe had owned seemed to have been carted off – and in an awful hurry, judging by the state of things. _I guess he moved,_ Alice thought, poking her head into the first-floor study. Dust motes floated in the dim light, the only things left in the cleared-out room. _Funny that he would do so – unless I scared him so badly on my last visit he decided it was safer being far away from me._ She winced. _I really need to learn to control my temper better. How am I supposed to find my rabbit now?_ Shaking her head, she made for the front door.

Only to find it securely boarded up. Alice stared at it a moment, confused. _All right – that's surely to keep out the squatters, but then – how did I get _in_? Did I come around the back way? I could have sworn I used this door. . .then again, I could have sworn this house was occupied when I first arrived._ She retraced her steps and took the left-hand turn across from the study, following the hallway to the back of the house. The rear door hung wide open, revealing the square behind and a light snow falling from the sky. Alice shook her head as she exited onto the white-dusted cobbles. "Far too early in the year for such miserable weather," she muttered, folding her arms and glaring at the slate-grey clouds. "Then again, it's turning out to be a pretty miserable day. . . ." She glanced around. "Suppose I'd best make my way to the front, Victor won't know to–"

She stopped as a pedestal in the middle of the square caught her eye, set among the trees that dotted the pavement. _Huh. I don't remember that being there before. Was it installed during my month of absence? _The pedestal itself was plain stone, but there was a little statue upon it, surrounded by broken glass. Curious, she moved forward to investigate.

A metal figure of the Mock Turtle stared back at her, map in hand as he stood inside the ruins of a shattered snow globe.

Alice's stomach plunged straight into her feet. _No – oh no no no, _she thought, backing up a step_. Don't you dare, Wonderland, don't you DARE _–

But it was too late. Reality had already come loose around her – hadn't she been tricked into thinking she was talking to Radcliffe when she was in fact addressing empty air? And now, in the alley beyond the square (which was mysteriously snow-free), she could see mushrooms peeking out of the road, scorched black by a sizzling coat of Ruin. _Come, Alice,_ they seemed to beckon from their oozing puddles. _Time to pick up your Blade again. Time to see just what you've been missing while you swallowed pills and entertained the orphans. Time to leave reality behind once more._

"No!"

Alice stepped backward again, eyes narrowed. "Not this time! You do _not _get to yank me back to Wonderland whenever you please! What happened when I actually _wanted_ to come and get this over with, hmm?" She folded her arms. "Besides which, I promised Victor I wouldn't stir from this house. Sit there and sizzle all you like – Wonderland can rot for all I care!"

The earth beneath her feet shuddered, as if in pain. _"Is that really what you want, Alice?"_ a familiar voice purred. _"You seemed quite eager to rescue this world a month ago."_

"A month ago I discovered I was working on getting myself killed while trying to save all of you," Alice muttered, staring at her feet. "A month ago I learned I was courting a return to Rutledge by indulging your whims. A month ago I scared my best friend in the entire world – in either of these worlds – out of his wits and indirectly led to him having to dodge death every time he leaves Houndsditch. Is Wonderland worth all that?"

"_You'll have to tell me,"_ Cheshire's voice responded. _"But if Wonderland rots, so do you. And while your best friend may not mind _external_ decay, I think the internal kind will make him worry about you all the more."_

. . .Damn it, that was a point. Alice looked back at the mushrooms, their outer layer of black ooze glistening. The Ruin was clearly still infesting her mind. . .and Bumby's therapy was not helping to fight it at all. Was her only hope to be rid of it to don her blue dress again? Was sanity only possible after a deep dive into the waters of madness? Reality was fracturing around her already. . .was Wonderland better or worse than Radcliffe's ever-changing house?

"_Stop dithering, girl – you are a woman of action. The dogs of war are loose – time to raise some havoc!"_

Alice grimaced and closed her eyes. "Forgive me, Victor," she mumbled. "But – I really do think this is more important." She took a deep breath to steady herself. "I'll try my best to stay out of trouble." Then, with a determined stare and a confident stride, she left the square, following the mushrooms –

into the deepest reaches of Hell.

Alice winced as the Infernal Train roared above her, Ruin dripping from its sides. The world around her was a wreck – the sky was a swirling vortex of orange and grey, the ground a dead baked brown. Threadneedle Street had vanished entirely, the buildings falling away into the abyss below as the Train thundered past. Now she was in a land of floating islands and dead trees, a land of crisped mushrooms and cooked snail shells, a land of –

The Vale! This horrific landscape was what remained of the Vale of Tears! Part of her wanted to burst into tears – her poor, gorgeous Vale! – but a much larger part of her wanted to scream in rage. "This bloody Ruin!" she snarled, glaring at the clouds of debris sailing through the air around her, being sucked into the heart of the storm. "It's corrupting all of Wonderland!"

A familiar grin appeared before her. "Seeking refuge from the wicked world?" Cheshire inquired as the rest of him faded into existence. "Perhaps things only _look_ like they've gone to Hell."

Alice gave him her best glower. "You're not that good a liar, and I'm not that stupid," she informed him. Sighing, she added, "But something a bit less calamitous would have been welcome."

The Cat just kept grinning at her – not that she'd ever seen him do otherwise. If he ever lost his smile, he did so only in private. "This unmitigated disaster is your doing, and it will get worse," he told her, tail flicking from side to side. "Your train keeps a hellish schedule." He leaned forward, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Get moving! Time waits for no one. The change has begun."

Alice wondered if it was worth arguing that she was quite certain that _thing_ was not her train. Perhaps it had been built by Wonderlanders, but there was such an aura of _wrongness_ to the locomotive that she couldn't accept it as her own. Cheshire could blame her for letting it run wild, but someone else was the driving force behind its construction. But who? "The Train is perfectly capable of frightening me, Cat. You should find another job," she scolded. In a softer voice, she added, "Is there really so little hope?" Was this Infernal Train, terrible as it was, really worse than the Queen of Hearts?

Cheshire flicked an ear. "There's even less. And if fear paralyzes you, we're lost." He gestured with a paw, his smile now looking more of a smirk. "To avoid that fate, I recommend you do what your Victor wants you to so badly and take his name."

And with that, he vanished, leaving Alice to gape at empty air. "What – you – _you're _on my arse to marry him now?!" she yelled as she recovered her wits. "How does _that_ help Wonderland?!"

"I would hope you could figure that out for yourself," Cheshire's disembodied voice commented. "But I said nothing about you becoming a _Van Dort_ – not yet, anyway."

Before Alice could come back with another retort, black puddles oozed up from the cracks dotting her little chunk of land, slowly coalescing into more mobile forms. Forgetting the riddle, she summoned her Blade and readied her umbrella. She could worry about infuriating Cats making jokes at her expense later._ Right now, I have some oily arse to kick._

* * *

Vale of Doom

". . .I really don't recall Hatter and Hare's tea table being that elaborate. Or so much like a corkscrew. Or _floating_."

Alice stared up at the twisted table as it revolved in midair, still decorated with the remains of the longest tea time anyone had ever known. It was actually quite strange to see it, with its pristine tablecloth and shining teapots, in the midst of this broken world. Especially when one considered that such a sight would be more appropriately placed in whatever remained of the Hatter's Domain. (Or Hare's – hadn't it been his table they'd been using?) Then again, this particular bit of the Vale seemed to be dominated by rusty machinery and oversized milk jugs – perhaps she'd landed in whatever remained of the Crockery, that little transitional area dominated by Hatter's miniature clones the Madcaps? _Suppose it doesn't really matter, what with the world flying apart around me,_ Alice thought with a sigh. _Now where do I go from – hang on, what's this?_

A single beam of sunlight broke through the swirling clouds, shooting down through the center of the table's gentle spiral and highlighting another, smaller table beneath. Sitting on top, amidst splatters of Ruin, was what looked like a teapot. Alice moved forward cautiously, eyes flicking left and right for danger. The teapot shimmered in the sunlight as she neared, inviting her to pick it up. It was of a curious design – made of brown metal accented here and there with rings of silver, with a spout like an elephant's trunk that flared out comically large at the end. On the side was what looked like some sort of clock or gauge in blue glass. Alice spotted words written around the lip of the lid and leaned forward to read them. "'The Mad Hatter Manufacturing, Inc.' Yes, why am I not surprised. . .but what exactly is it you do, Mr. Teapot? Surely you're designed for more than just plain tea. . . ."

And then she spotted it, tucked into the curve of the handle: a trigger, like one might find on a gun. Her interest more than piqued now, she picked up the teapot, and listened as something inside clanked. _Was_ it a gun of some sort? No, with a "barrel" that large, it was really more like a cannon. . . .

The familiar wet squelch of Ruins forming distracted her from her musings. Looking up, she found a large mob of Insidious Ruins toddling toward her with malicious intent. She backed away quickly, angling her new weapon at them. "Very kind of you to appear like this and let me know what exactly this thing does," she commented. "If you could all come together a bit more? . . .Perfect! Now, as Father used to say, hold still–" She pressed down hard on the trigger "–and say 'cheese!'"

The teapot shook in her hands, lid rattling dangerously as steam built up inside the metal container. Then, just when Alice was sure the damn thing was going to break on her, _something _came rocketing out of the spout, nearly tipping her on her behind. _Oh! Shades of the Blunderbuss there,_ she thought, regaining her balance. _Does it do as much damage?_ Training her eyes on the sky, she saw what looked like an oversized, bulging pocketwatch sailing through the air, trailing hissing white mist. This mysterious projectile landed right in the center of the group of Ruins –

And exploded, drenching the unfortunate beasts in a shower of hot green tea. The ones in the middle didn't stand a chance against the boiling liquid – they immediately shrieked their last as their bodies dissolved away. The others wailed in pain as they were splashed with whatever remained, scuttling away from the blast zone. Alice's eyes lit up with malicious glee. _Oh yes – _definitely_ a cannon,_ she thought, depressing the trigger again.

Only to hear an annoyed "chock, chock" as the weapon sputtered. Alice cast a quick glance at the dial – both hands were all the way to the right. "Must need some time to cool down," she mumbled, sending it away in favor of the Pepper Grinder for a moment and introducing another Ruin to its maker. "No matter – Hollow Yves will help with that, I'm sure." She resummoned the teapot, checked the gauge – hands on the left now, good – and shot another watch, smashing the remaining Ruins to bits. Alice grinned in smug satisfaction. "Oh Hatter – my _deepest_ apologies for not reacting appropriately to your death!"

A sudden growl alerted her to the fact that her fight wasn't quite over. Keeping a firm grip on the Teapot Cannon, she turned to see – _oh no._

Another Colossal Ruin (or the same one she'd fought before, perhaps, healed up by the hellish train) ripped its way free of the dirt, its many porcelain faces gaping at her before being hidden under a protective layer of black. The monster screamed rage at her from its enormous maw, white arms reaching out to seize her and force her into its belly. Alice swallowed and hurried to put as much distance as possible between herself and the beast. "All right – just apologies for now," she corrected herself. "Deepest apologies as soon as your weapon proves itself capable of killing one of these!"

* * *

_Bloody Madcaps and Eyepots – you'd think they'd know I'm on their side! Strictly in the sense of making sure Wonderland doesn't fall down around our ears, to be fair, but even so! I could use some help fighting all these Ruins!_

Alice glided her way up to the next chunk of dirt, grumbling to herself. The damage to the Vale was even worse than she'd feared. Almost every living thing that wasn't a Ruin had been purged from the Vale – those two Madcaps and their Eyepot had been the only non-oozing faces she'd seen since Cheshire had done his usual runner. There was the voice of Caterpillar to guide her across the landscape, yes, but given that he hadn't bothered to show himself yet, Alice wasn't going to count him. And she didn't only have to worry about the Infernal Train's pesky foot soldiers, oh no – what land that remained was crisscrossed by rivers of boiling Ruin, heating the air to oven-hot and burning her straight through her boots should she happen to stumble into one. All around her, she was confronted by the evidence that the Train sought nothing less than Wonderland's total destruction. It was enough to make her sick. _You're certainly right this time, Caterpillar,_ she thought as she landed lightly on the dead brown earth, thinking about his last message hidden in a forgotten hookah. _This change is most definitely not for the better. Still, no time for regrets, not now. I can't go back – as much as I wish I could; oh Victor, I am sorry – so I must keep going forward. It's the only way to save Wonderland. Whatever's left of it._

She looked around, eyes peeled for anything useful she could pick up before continuing. Half her own face stared back at her – one of her old crying statues had smashed here, leaving the single remaining eye to weep streaks of dried Ruin over the remnants of her arm. There was also the station platform for the Looking-Glass Line she'd seen before, now a burnt and rusted wreck. Scattered around it were a few metal crates – obviously dropped from the Hatter's Domain as it fell apart – and, resting on the train station stairs, a crystalline butterfly. _Oh good, _she thought, smashing the boxes for their bounty of teeth and meta-essence before laying a hand on the butterfly. _Please be a pleasant memory._ _I could really use one._ The world around her warped, and then –

_Alice knocked on her friend's door. "Victor? It's time for tea."_

_No reply. Alice knocked again, then tried the knob. The door swung open easily, revealing Victor sitting on his bed, his back to her, apparently doing nothing more important than staring at the wall. Alice frowned. "Victor?" she repeated, crossing around the bed. "Why didn't you–"_

_She stopped as she saw his face. Victor looked the very definition of "haggard." His eyes were dull, fixed on the wall opposite him as if the secrets of existence were encoded in the wallpaper. His hair was mussed, and the dark circles around his eyes more prominent than ever. His __clothes were badly wrinkled__, __and his __entire body sagged forward onto itself, as if he was being crushed under some great weight. All in all, he didn't paint a very pretty p__icture. "Are you all right?" Alice asked, concerned._

_Victor finally turned his head toward her. "Oh, hello Alice," he mumbled. Even his voice sounded like it had given up. "What is it?"_

"_It's tea time, if you want any. . .are you sick?" Alice felt his forehead on instinct. The skin was cool. "You look a mess."_

"_I know," Victor mumbled, looking down at his scuffed shoes. "I'm sorry, I just – this morning, looking in the mirror, I got to thinking, and. . .I just never got around to making myself look presentable, I'm afraid."_

"_Thinking about what?" Alice asked, wondering what ghastly topic could have reduced Victor to this state._

"_About everything that's happened to me. . .and about getting older." He resumed staring at the wall. "Do you know, back in Burtonsville, most men my age would have a wife, or at least a steady paramour? A few might even have a baby on the way. I thought that was going to be my life as well. Instead, here I am, stuck in a place meant for _children_. Being treated like some sort of invalid who can't possibly know what's best for himself." He let out a deep, weary sigh. __**"Some days it feels like my entire world's fallen apart on me. Like I'll never have a 'normal' life aga–"**_

_He stopped short as his eyes came to rest on her again, snapping up straight. __**"Oh – Alice, I'm s-so sorry!" **__he cried, grabbing his tie. __**"I d-didn't mean to suggest my problems are – do forgive me."**_

Alice extended her hand to touch Victor's shoulder, the words, "It's fine," on her lips, but then he dissolved away like morning mist under bright summer sunshine, delivering her back to the devastation of the Vale. She closed her eyes and sighed as the remnants of his voice faded into the background thunder. _So much for a pleasant trip back in time. Really, did I need to be reminded of that while I'm in such a horrible – _

_Horrible. . .state. . . ._

Alice bit her lip as she turned her gaze to the swirling vortex in the sky. She'd agree that she'd suffered much more than he had. Losing her beloved parents and sister to a horrific death by fire, spending ten years locked in Rutledge under the care of sadists and fools, fighting off hallucinations of all sorts even months after her release, trying to rip her inheritance free of Radcliffe's greedy clutches, having utterly ineffective sessions with Dr. Bumby. . .and now, watching Wonderland be torn to bits by that horrible Train. . .oh yes, she was no stranger to pain. Her _life_ was pain.

But then again – so was Victor's. At least she knew that her parents had loved her during the brief time they'd had together – she'd often wondered if she could say the same for her friend. His parents seemed to consider him more of a pet to be tamed or a problem to be solved than a person in his own right. He'd fallen hard and fast (much too fast) for two women in less than a day, and then before he could sort out his feelings for either properly, lost them forever. He'd been ostracized by his entire village – called evil and damned – for a delusion that, though strange, seemed relatively harmless – even fun – to her. And after all that, he'd been exiled from his home, sent to a place he loathed run by a person he despised, all because no one would accept him just keeping his memories of the corpse bride, real or not, to himself. Not to mention having to deal with nasty looks, poor food, mocking children, a pimp out for his blood, a doctor who would not take no for an answer, and a woman who drove him mad with worry every time her brain decided reality was too boring to deal with. He'd received more than his fair share of suffering in his short twenty years on this Earth. And he deserved to have a whinge about it if he liked, without worrying if he was hurting her feelings. She didn't have a monopoly on misery, much as she liked to think she did.

She put her face in her hand, guilt pressing down on her worse than the heat. "Why do you put up with me, Victor?" she asked herself. "Why do you insist on being my friend? I only bring pain and misery to those around me." She looked up and spread her arms wide. "Exhibit A, not that you can see it. Ugh, are you already out of your mind with fear for my safety? Or are you just angry that I broke my promise?" She felt a wetness in her eyes, and blinked it back. "Or are you dead, and I won't know it until the funeral's already come and gone?"

"_We wouldn't keep that from you, I assure you."_

Alice's head snapped back up to the sky. "Caterpillar? I thought you could only speak to me when I took a whiff from those blasted hookahs. Your tobacco's gone rotten, by the way. It smells like death."

"_It's easier through the smoke, but since you seem on the verge of sinking into useless pity, I felt it best to strain myself," _Caterpillar's voice said, sounding weaker and more distant with every moment. _"At least you're worried about someone other than yourself for a change. But neither your destiny nor his involves standing around feeling sorry for someone. If I may borrow Cheshire's words, get mov. . . ."_

The voice faded away to nothing, its message cut off right before completion. Alice sighed and rolled her eyes. "Can't take the slightest break," she muttered, continuing on to the next ethereal steam vent. "I wonder if the Greek oracles were so demanding. . . ."

At least her annoyance canceled out her guilt over leaving Victor stranded. She continued on, navigating the shattered remains of the Hatter's Domain and blasting enemies out of the way with her Teapot Cannon (_Deepest apologies indeed for saying you deserved to die, Hatter. When I fix this mess and bring you back, I'm giving you a hug for just how useful this thing is_). At last, after destroying another Colossal Ruin (two practically in a row? How much did her mind _really_ hate her? At least now she knew how to kill them – even if that had included finding out they could, more or less, _breathe fire_), she found another of Caterpillar's hookahs. She freed it from its shell of Ruin, then grabbed the pipe and took a deep breath in. "All right then – anything else you'd like to say?" she said as the smoke trailed out of her lungs.

"_That I'm glad you're already starting to learn this most important lesson – it's not only about you, Alice!"_ Caterpillar's voice boomed out around her. And to that, Alice could only nod, thinking, _I know. And I'll start trying to act like I do. At least for _his_ sake._

* * *

Alice stared at the one remaining green patch in the Vale, trying to decided what she thought of it. On the one hand, she found its presence awfully hypocritical of Caterpillar. He'd informed her just two minutes ago that it wasn't only about her – and yet he made his refuge hidden away in the last tiny spot untouched by Ruin? Even Cheshire deigned to make actual _physical_ appearances in the decomposing landscape, instead of relying on wisps of smoke and whispers of wind to carry his presence. On the other hand, it was heartening to see that there was a piece of her beloved Wonderland that hadn't yet been destroyed. The emerald moss, the little blue waterfall, even the swirl of white smoke encircling the rocky spire that dominated it all. . .it gave her hope that, one day, all the Vale could look like this again. And with the storm in the sky growing more chaotic by the minute, sucking everything into the blackness at its center, she really needed that hope.

She waded out into the small lake fed by the fall to find a tiny mountain of what appeared to be jade sticking up out of the center. Curious, she examined it. The base was marked by large jugs and vases, carefully cut from the raw gemstone and polished to a vibrant green. Further up, minuscule trees made of white and blue Chinese porcelain dotted the crags and crevices, and water poured from mysterious holes in little replicas of the fall nearby. There was also a bit of branch stuck haphazardly onto the side, as if someone had thought that the structure would be improved by something organic and prone to rotting in any sort of damp. And at the very top, there was a miniature temple made of brass, with sweet-smelling smoke wafting from its roof. As her eyes fell upon it, the voice that had been following her around the Vale spoke again. "You are familiar with the saying that smoking stunts your growth?"

"Adults assault children with that adage – usually while they've got a pipe stuck in their mouths," Alice replied, rolling her eyes. Not that she'd ever been interested in smoking anyway. The cigars favored by some of Papa's colleagues had always smelled horrible to her, and by Lizzie's own admission, cigarettes were "no fun at all." And any mild intrigue the pipe might have held had been washed away by Victor telling her about Mayhew and his constant choking cough. _Not for me – even if I _have_ been puffing on hookahs lately,_ she amended. _Speaking of which – _"I see you've kept the best tobacco for yourself," she added. "The stuff you made me puff was rancid."

"If you hadn't waited a month to return and finish what you started, it might have been fresh," Caterpillar retorted. "As it is, I won't ask you to inhale this." Rings of wispy white flowed from the temple, encircling her in a sort of endlessly-descending column. "Simply let the smoke envelop you."

Alice watched the circles slide down her body one by one, wondering what they were doing – then realized that the mountain was growing before her. "I can shrink on my own now, you know," she said, frowning. "Can't we talk while I'm at my right proper–"

There was a familiar scream in the air, and a shadow fell over the grove as the Train thundered through again. Alice shuddered. "Never mind. Continue as planned." If that wretched locomotive was making another pass through the Vale of Doom, then the safest place to be might be on that mountain.

Down, down, down – and then the world faded briefly to white as the smoke enveloped her completely in a cloud. Alice coughed and shut her eyes tightly, waiting for the fog to pass. When she opened them again, she found herself standing on a jade island in the middle of the little lake – although at her new size, it could now only be described as the vastest of oceans. The sky above her was a dismal grey, the clouds threatening to release a massive torrent of rain any moment. Currently, though, the only thing descending from them were black and red characters of what Alice guessed was Chinese – they looked a bit like the inked labels the traders in that section of the city put on their wares, anyway. _I hope they don't spell out any important messages – I haven't a hope of deciphering them._

She turned her gaze back to the landscape around her. She was standing among a whole archipelago of jade islands, clustered around the base of the mountain. Carved bridges and floating mahjong tiles provided paths from place to place, while smoking incense pots and vases jutted out of the green rock, sharing space with carvings of dragons, flowers, and fans. Far above it all, Alice could just see the rocky crag that made up the top of the mountain, shrouded in storm clouds and smoke. "You couldn't put me at the top, Caterpillar? Of course you couldn't," she answered herself. "It wouldn't be Wonderland if I didn't have to do things the hard way." She glanced down at herself – as she'd suspected, she'd been granted a new dress. This one was a deep blue that was almost black, printed with multicolored flowers and butterflies and fastened in a wrap-around style like a kimono, with a large pink sash to hold it closed. "At least you gave me a pretty gown. Would have preferred a katana to go with it, but. . . ."

Well, she could only work with what she had – and what she had seemed more than adequate for the job. If she had to climb this stupid piece of rock to get a straight answer out of her Oracle, she had best start right away. She jumped to the nearest mahjong tile and began planning her route, wondering just how rude it would be to greet Caterpillar with a Hobby Horse straight to his smug face.


	14. Not A Child (Ignore The Toy)

Chapter 14

October 16th, 1875

Threadneedle Street, London's West End, England

12:28 P.M.

"Here you are sir! Threadneedle Street!"

"At last – thank you very much," Victor said as he got out of the cab. He pulled out his wallet and paid the driver, making sure to include a decent tip. "Have a good day now."

"You too, sir, you too!" the cabbie said, grinning at his latest take before cracking the reins. "Come on, sweetheart, lots of other people looking to go places!"

Victor turned as the horse trotted away, glancing up and down the street. Threadneedle wasn't particularly far from where the West End of London bumped up against the East End, but already there was a distinct difference in the style of the houses, the dress of the people, and the overall cleanliness of the neighborhood. Much more like the London he recalled from the occasional trips his family had taken him on as a child. _Mother must wish Houndsditch was located in one of these neighborhoods,_ he thought as he proceeded along the sidewalk, checking each house to see if it bore any signs of belonging to Alice's family lawyer. _I can't say I blame her. . .Heh, I almost wish I had her here with me. She'd be certain of keeping Radcliffe busy while we searched out Alice's rabbit. Talk the poor man's ear off, no doubt. Maybe he'd even give us the toy in exchange for me taking Mother away. . . . Then again, Alice has said before that Radcliffe likes rich clients. I wonder. . .could I promise to speak to my parents on his behalf in exchange for her rabbit? It might work. . .if nothing sour has passed between them in the meantime. _He grimaced and rubbed the back of his head. _I can't believe I'm over a hour late. Damn you Jack Splatter! At least that cab got me here quicker than walking – and saved me from having to look over my shoulder every five minutes. Still, I can't afford to take them _everywhere_, even with my generous allowance. . . . Just another problem to solve in a long, long list of them._

Finally, at the end of the road, he came upon a large dark townhouse, surrounded by an iron fence as seemed to be the custom here. A weathered sign proclaimed it to be the residence of "Wilton J. Radcliffe, Solicitor." Victor pushed open the gate and made his way up to the front door. There was a speaker box mounted on the frame, which intrigued him. Well, that was the very latest, wasn't it – being able to greet your guests from the comfort of your own quarters? _Mother would be terribly jealous if she knew. Hopefully Alice has already told him to expect me. _"Excuse me?" he called as he knocked.

No answer. Victor knocked again, harder. "Mr. Radcliffe?"

"You're wasting your time there, guv'nor."

Victor blinked and turned to see one of the city's various workmen standing behind him, albeit in a cleaner shirt than was usual of his kind. "Radcliffe buggered off about a month ago," he continued. "I helped him move out all that Chinese and Japanese junk he owns. Insisted it was priceless – peh." The man spat. "That just means it's too posh to actually use."

"Uh – yes, I know," Victor said almost automatically as his mind tried to process this new information. "You said he _left_?"

"Yup – moving to the country, only I heard that there's something wrong with the house, so he's stuck up in one of them fancy hotels," the man said, smirking. "Serves him right for treating me and Larry like your common working nag. You one of his clients?"

"No," Victor shook his head. "My friend Alice–"

And that's when it clicked. "_Alice!_"

Victor looked left and right, his guts leaping into his throat. There was no sign of his friend anywhere. Frantically he tried to pull open the door. "Ain't gettin' in that way – he had us board it up," the man informed him. "Keep out the 'riff-raff.' What's got you in a snit, anyhow?"

"She's supposed to be here!" Victor cried, knowing it would make no sense to the stranger and not caring. "She promised she wouldn't stir from this place until I arrived! And if she's not, then – oh no, not again – Alice!" He darted around the side of the house, hoping against hope she was lurking somewhere behind it.

The rear of Radcliffe's home consisted mainly of a square dotted with rather sickly-looking trees, which opened onto an alley. Victor turned in a circle, searching for any clue of Alice's whereabouts. There was nothing outside – but as he spun, he noticed that the back door of the house was wide open. He promptly dashed inside. "Alice? Are you here?"

The house was still and silent. Victor looked around the little hallway he found himself in. It was clear even from this tiny space that the house hadn't been lived in for the month the man outside had claimed. The wallpaper was torn, and dotted with dark spots here and there to show where pictures had hung. Aged boards covered every window to the outside, nailed up in zig-zag patterns. And everything was coated with dust – looking down, Victor could see his footprints following him into the house.

As well as another's.

Hope flared up anew in his heart as he examined the prints. They were rather muddled, but judging by the rough size and shape, they'd match Alice's shoes. _So maybe she is still here? It looks like she came in through this way. . . ._ He started following them, crossing his fingers he was in luck.

Sadly, it only took getting to the house's main hall for him to realize his brief moment of optimism was misguided. Clear as day on the floor were _two_ sets of prints – one leading into the house, and one leading out. They crisscrossed at a couple of spots, resulting in the smudged tracks he'd followed inside. _Oh, for – but if she went back outside, then why didn't I see her? Alice, you _promised_. . . ._

Still, this was his best clue for figuring out what had happened while he'd been busy avoiding Splatter and flagging down his cab. Victor continued following the footprints that led in down the hall and up the stairs. They led him straight to what he assumed was Radcliffe's office – or, rather, what was left of it. The room had been thoroughly cleared out – all that remained was a desk, a couple of broken chairs, and a pile of forgotten books. There was also a huge clear spot on the floor, as if someone had laid down (_or fainted_). The prints then looped around the desk, stopping briefly in front of the drawers before heading out the door. Victor resisted the urge to swear, instead relieving his feelings by kicking the stack of books down. _She's gone. Her hallucinations must have gotten the better of her again, and now she's wandering around the West End and I have no clue on God's green earth where she might be, _he thought, staring at the boarded-up window while grabbing his head._ Damn Splatter – and damn that cat! I would have been much better off finding my own hiding space closer to Threadneedle! At least then I might have arrived here in time to stop her leaving!_

"Come on, swell, you can't leave me without some clue what you're looking for."

Victor started, then turned to see the workman in the doorway, looking quite puzzled. "If you ain't one of Radcliffe's clients, what do you care that he's done a runner?" he added. "And who's Alice?"

"Alice Liddell," Victor explained, realizing this fellow was his best hope for information on anyone's whereabouts. "She's his client, and my best friend. We made plans to meet here to talk with him."

"Ooooh – well, you were out of luck from the start," the workman said with a laugh. "It was the mad Liddell girl who sent him running!" He grinned at Victor's stony expression. "Mad Liddell girl – 'cause it sounds like–"

"I get it," Victor said flatly.

"Don't have much of a sense of humor, do you? Thought that would be necessary with that lunatic as your 'best friend.' You know, nobody's been able to get into her drawers yet, and I know a bloke or two who have really tried."

"I have no bloody interest in her drawers!" Victor yelled, hands balling up into fists. "What I care about is that she must be hallucinating again, and the last time that happened she was gone for a _week_ and nearly got herself killed three times over at the very least! And now I have no idea where she's gone and Radcliffe's not around to see if _he_ knows anything and I won't be able to go looking for her properly because Jack Splatter's out for my blood!"

"Jack Splat – hang on, _you're_ the nob who nailed him?" the workman said, raising an eyebrow.

"It was a lucky punch! Not that he cares about that when he's threatening to remove the fist that did it!" Victor dropped his head into his hands, digging his fingers into his scalp. "Oh, and now I get to go back to Houndsditch and tell Dr. Bumby that she's gone again, no less. The man is going to flay me alive. Ugh. . . ." _I used up all my luck for the year on my father balking at "more radical treatments," didn't I? _he thought bitterly. _I would have rather taken pills and endured a therapy session every day rather than have _this_ happen!_

There was silence for a long moment. Then, suddenly, the workman said, "I think Radcliffe's holed up in the Langham, if it helps."

Victor lifted his head, startled. "What?"

"Langham Hotel. I hear it's posher than posh – definitely the sort of place that old tit would want to stay," the workman elaborated. "I got no idea where your looney bird flew off to, but maybe he knows something. 'Specially if she's a client."

Victor knew that was extremely unlikely, but it was worth a shot. "That's – that's very kind of you," he said, trying not to let his puzzlement show too much on his face.

The man smirked. "Eh, I got no love left for Radcliffe, not after the way he treated me and Larry. And I've bumped into that Dr. Bumby too – man's a wanker. Can't believe they let him around children."

"Me either," Victor admitted, unable to help a little laugh. "He treats them like figures in a ledger. I'm just used to being one of 'the enemy' myself."

"I ain't getting on the bad side of anyone who can throw a punch that knocks Jack Splatter on his arse, even if it only happens once in a blue moon," was the workman's pragmatic reply. "Not to say I wouldn't appreciate a few shillings in compensation for my generosity. . . ."

Victor chuckled as he reached for his wallet. "Trust me, I've been living in Whitechapel for half a year," he said, extracting the requested amount. "I know better than not to offer. But thank you very much."

"You're welcome," the man said, slipping the notes into his pocket. "Now why don't we get out of here before some bobby notices us and thinks we're trying to rob the place?"

"Good idea." Victor trailed the workman out, sighing. _Well, this day just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it? Still, maybe, just maybe, Radcliffe will know something. And if not – perhaps I can at least figure out what he's done with her rabbit. I don't trust that cat to lead either of us to the right place anymore._

* * *

The Langham Hotel turned out to be a surprisingly familiar place to Victor – the hotel where his family had stayed during his last visit to London at the age of eleven. The instant Nell had learned that the Prince of Wales himself had done the opening ceremonies, she'd hounded William until her husband agreed to take the family up for a few nights. The yellow facade, with its jutting arched entranceway, numerous bits of elegantly-arranged stonework, and large tower with spire reaching to the sky, still reminded him of a storybook castle. _Fortunate I'm wearing one of my better suits,_ Victor thought, brushing some dust off his shoulder as he got out of the cab. _I don't think they'd let me in the door otherwise._

Even with the proper clothes, it took a bit of talking to convince first the doorman, then the concierge, to let him see Radcliffe in his suite. Fortunately, both men seemed convinced by Victor's pleas that it was a matter of great urgency and let him through. From there, it was a quick climb to the fifth floor, where he counted door numbers until he located Radcliffe's. _Well – let's try this again,_ he thought, trying to swallow down his nervousness as he knocked. _Please be in, please be in. . . ._

The door opened, revealing a fat, jowly man with thick white whiskers and a squinty expression behind a pair of tiny gold glasses. "Ah – it took you long enough," he snapped.

Victor blinked. "I – beg your pardon?" _He's been expecting me? _Is_ Alice here?_

"You won't be receiving any from me – nor a tip for such slow service," the man said, shaking his head. "I ordered room service thirty minutes ago! Surely it can't take that long to cook such a simple meal." He eyed Victor's empty hands. "Where's the plate, man? Don't tell me there's been a problem. I remember when this was the finest hotel money could buy!"

_Oh!_ "I'm n-not an employee, sir," Victor corrected him, smiling awkwardly. "I'm a visitor. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Wilton J. Radcliffe?"

"Visitor? Then where is that boy with my food? I'll have to make a complaint at the front desk. . . ." The man shook his head, then frowned at Victor. "I am Mr. Radcliffe – are you here to tell me my house is finally ready for my arrival?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"Then please be on your way. I'm not taking clients at the moment," Radcliffe said, starting to close the door.

"I'm not a client, Mr. Radcliffe," Victor said quickly, holding his hands behind his back so he could fiddle with his fingers in relative privacy. "My name is Victor Van Dort. I'm a friend of Alice Liddell. She's gone missing, and – well, I know it's unlikely, but I was hoping that you might just have some information for me."

Radcliffe squinted at him again, adjusting his glasses. "Van Dort? The same as the fish people?"

"The very same," Victor nodded, doing his best to be polite and charming. "My father's the owner of the whole enterprise."

"And you're a friend of Miss Liddell?"

"I am. We both live at the Houndsditch Home For Wayward Youth."

Radcliffe looked puzzled for a moment. Then, suddenly, something seemed to click in his mind. "Oh! I've heard about you – the one who – well, let's just say the servants' talk is less than complimentary. A rather nasty business, I must say. I feel most strongly for your poor parents. I do hope Dr. Bumby's having better luck with you than he is with Miss Liddell."

Well – no wonder Alice often complained about Radcliffe being an idiot. Victor disliked the man already. "Please, sir," he said, concealing his irritation as best he could. "I'd rather not talk about that. There's a much more urgent matter I need to address. Alice and I intended to visit you at your home today, but we got separated along the way, and now she's vanished. I'm worried that she may be in a bad state. Have you seen her at all? Out on the street, or even here in the hotel?"

"Certainly not," Radcliffe said, his fat face wrinkling into a deep frown. "I haven't been out all this morning, and I doubt Alice would be allowed inside the Langham. I would prefer to never set eyes on the girl again, if I'm honest. Do you know how our last meeting went, Master Van Dort? She had a complete mental breakdown right in my office! Accused me of stealing her rabbit, of spending all her inheritance. . .she even _threatened_ me to get her hands on the inquest report! She forced me to flee my own home for fear of my life! I suppose spending ten years of your life in an asylum doesn't do much for one's manners, but I would have hoped Dean Liddell and his wife had raised her better."

Victor's eyes narrowed. "She admitted to me she got a little nasty with you, yes," he said coldly. "She also said that you accused her of starting the fire."

The lawyer deflated. "Yes, I did," he admitted. "Foolish of me, I know. I should have expected a reaction like that. She looks well enough, but I know her for an unstable and violent person. One does not poke a lion in the eye. If she keeps on like that, she's going to end up back at Rutledge." He shook his head, then looked up at Victor. "She's gone missing, you say?"

"Yes," Victor nodded, his stomach turning somersaults inside him. "I know she's been back to your house–"

"What?!" Radcliffe gasped. "She broke into my old residence? What a criminal mind she has! I knew right from the start she was trouble!"

Victor frowned. "Sir, we were on our way to your house from the start – we didn't realize you'd moved. Besides, _I_ was able to break in – and quite easily too. The back door is wide open."

"Is it?" Radcliffe let out a frustrated sigh. "I should have never hired that pair of louts. You pay someone good money to have an important job done, and this is what you get." He scowled at a nearby wall, then turned his attention back to Victor. "Did she take anything?"

"Not that I could see, sir. Though, if you'll pardon me saying so, there wasn't much to take."

"Yes, true, thankfully." Radcliffe folded his hands in front of him. "Well, I haven't seen either hide or hair of Alice in a month. Nor do I wish to."

"Any idea where she might have gone?" Victor pressed.

"None whatsoever. That's not my business anymore. I'll be out of this wretched city soon enough – once those builders correct their mistakes to my quarters."

Victor sighed, staring at his feet. Damn. He'd known it was a one-in-a-million chance, but part of him just couldn't stop hoping. . . . "I see. Thank you for your time." He started to turn away, then paused. Oh yes. . . . "Actually – Mr. Radcliffe? One more question, if you please?"

Radcliffe, who had almost shut his door, poked his head out irritably. "What now?"

"Do you still have Alice's rabbit?" He fidgeted under Radcliffe's confused look. "I k-know I shouldn't pry, but – I can't help but be curious. Why is it in your possession in the first place?"

"She abandoned it at the asylum," Radcliffe said, opening the door again. "After her release, they found it in her room, half-hidden under the bed. Nurse Darling, the head nurse on Alice's ward, came and gave it to me, asking that I return it to her."

Now it was Victor's turn to be confused. "Then why didn't you?"

"I intended to at first, but not three days after I received the toy Dr. Bumby sent me a missive asking me to dispose of it. Said it was an unpleasant reminder of Alice's past that would simply hinder her therapy. Given how she gets around the dratted thing, I'm not surprised."

"But – but it's her last link to her family!" Victor cried, once again stunned at how inhumane man could be to man – or woman, in this case. "I'd be a bit possessive of such a thing too!"

"This is more than merely being 'possessive,' Master Van Dort," Radcliffe lectured him. "Alice has an unhealthy fixation with the toy. I repeat, she accused me of _stealing_ it the last time we met as part of her volley of epithets. As if an old man like me would have any interest in a child's plaything!"

". . .Sir, with all due respect – you've kept it for almost a year, haven't you?" Victor pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

Radcliffe gave him a look that said that he did not appreciate Victor constantly poking holes in his arguments. "Sentiment prevented me from disposing of it," he confessed reluctantly. "I was fond of the Liddells, and it seemed wrong to just throw away one of the few things of theirs that actually survived the fire. Foolish of me – all it's done is make my life worse. I should have chucked it in the bin or given it away to charity ages ago." He suddenly glared suspiciously at Victor. "Is she _really_ missing, or did she send you here to get it?"

"No!" Victor said, holding up his hands. Then, on impulse, he added, "Although I wouldn't say no to retrieving it for her. That was the idea of our visiting you – to beg for the rabbit's return. I don't care what Dr. Bumby says – I believe the toy would only help her. At least, it would make her life quite a bit happier."

"You're hardly a trained psychiatrist, Master Van Dort," Radcliffe said, folding his arms. "Have you seen Alice at her worst?"

"I have, sir. I was forced to pull her out of a burning building because of it," Victor replied, folding his own. "And even with that, I stand by my opinion. I've heard so many stories of Wonderland I believe I know it as well as any of her doctors. I know what that toy represents to her. Without it, she has no guide to her inner world. Giving her back Rabbit might keep her hallucinations from leading her into danger – give her a necessary link back to reality." He sighed, then brought his hands up pleadingly. "All I want is for her to get better, Mr. Radcliffe. And I honestly, truly think her rabbit is the key to that."

"Hmph." Radcliffe glowered at him, unconvinced. "Well, I hope you don't expect me to just give it to you."

Victor met his gaze levelly, watching him for a long moment. Then he pulled his wallet out of his pocket and opened it, making sure the lawyer got a good look at the money inside. "Would you be willing to sell it to me, then?"

Two minutes later, Victor exited the hotel with much lighter pockets and a old, tattered white rabbit doll under his arm. He smiled as he emerged into the cool air. Despite the lack of information on Alice's whereabouts, this had turned out to be a surprisingly successful trip. "She is going to be thrilled to see you," he told the doll, patting it on the head. "Now I just have to find _her_."

* * *

Four hours later, Victor was forced to admit defeat. He'd taken the long way around back to the Home, investigating as much as he could of the West End and asking people if they'd seen Alice. Only one man had responded in the affirmative, and he'd only caught a brief glimpse of her before she'd run down another street and vanished from sight. What little he could tell Victor seemed consistent with her usual behavior while hallucinating, though. _Which means I get to worry again that she's mixing with the wrong people and getting ready to race in front of speeding carriages. Lovely._ He hugged the rabbit close to him as he neared the gates of Houndsditch. _Hopefully a good cup of tea will make this news easier for Bumby to – oh for the love of –_

Jack Splatter was leaning on the fence next to the sign, cleaver in hand. He'd managed to clean himself up a little from when Victor had spotted him last, though the cat scratches still stood out lividly against his face. He eyed Victor as the young man neared. "You're a lucky toff, aren't you?" he commented. "Seems whenever I'm about to get my due, something comes along and wrecks the mood."

Victor wondered if it would be smarter to just bolt in the other direction and trust his speed to get him to safety. He knew very well he could outrun the pimp. . .then he saw a few small faces on the other side of the bars. "You wouldn't do this in front of children!" he said on automatic.

"Why not? Little buggers have seen worse," Splatter said, running a finger along the edge of his cleaver. "Might as well give them a lesson in what happens to those who screw over Jack Splatter."

"I did not mean to 'screw you over,' as you put it," Victor said, backing up and eying possible escape routes. "Why can't we settle this the way most people settle things around here?"

"Because I don't care how rich your folks are – you'll never be able to pay me enough for hearing people snicker about me and the swell," Jack said coldly, eyes narrowed and full of fire. He stood up straight and started advancing. "Let's have it out, Van Dort – you and me, right here, right–"

"Yes, thank you Mr. Splatter, I think that will be all."

Dr. Bumby appeared at the front door, face mild behind his glasses. Splatter glared at the psychiatrist. "And who do you think you are to order me around?"

"The owner of this establishment, and someone who can have you put in gaol for far longer than you were last time," Dr. Bumby replied calmly as he approached the pair. "He's one of _mine_, Mr. Splatter. If you have a problem with him, you take it up with me. I'm sure we can come to some sort of suitable arrangement."

Even though this was the best way out of his current bad situation, Victor found himself rankled by the psychiatrist's assertion. Take it up with him? As if Victor was a schoolboy quarreling with a mate, and Splatter was the other boy's father? "I've already offered to pay him," he spoke up, wanting to regain some agency in the conversation. "Goodness, at this point, I'd be willing to let him punch me in the jaw again!"

"Violence is the brute's way of solving problems," Dr. Bumby said with a frown.

"Yeah, and there ain't any better brute than me," Jack Splatter grinned nastily. "Oh, I will nobble you, swell. And maybe then I'll make you parade around the streets with that toy like the little prat you are. Want to run home to Mumsy, Van Dort?"

"Toy?" Dr. Bumby's gaze flicked down to the tattered old rabbit resting under Victor's arm. His eyes darkened. "Victor, what are you doing with that?"

"I bought it off Mr. Radcliffe," Victor said, grimacing. Oh great – he'd _hoped_ to sneak it inside so he wouldn't have to deal with this right away. "He wanted to get rid of it anyway."

"Hmph. When I told him to dispose of it, this is _not_ what I had in mind." Dr. Bumby stepped forward and held out his hand. "Hand it over, Master Van Dort. And then perhaps we'll have a little chat about why I think this would be detrimental to Alice's health?"

Maybe it was the way Dr. Bumby was looking at him – all faux-fatherly disappointment. Maybe it was the way he stood, completely assured of Victor's unquestioning obedience. Or maybe it was just the fact Jack Splatter was watching from the sidelines and sniggering. Whatever the reason, something deep inside Victor snapped. "No," he said firmly.

Dr. Bumby frowned again. "Master Van Dort, I am in charge of–"

"Dr. Bumby, I am _not_ twelve years old," Victor cut him off. "I am twenty, and I am perfectly capable of knowing my own mind. I bought this rabbit fair and square from Mr. Radcliffe. Therefore, it is my property, and mine to do with as I wish. Try to take it from me and I'll summon the police and have them have a little chat with you about theft!"

Dr. Bumby's jaw dropped open. "You – you can't talk to me in that manner," he finally said, his voice full of open astonishment.

"I do apologize if I'm being overly rude, but the fact remains that I can take care of myself, and my belongings," Victor said, straightening up to his full six feet three inches. "I do not need to be scolded like a recalcitrant child all the time. Perhaps you're right about this being detrimental to Alice's health. If that is the case, I will retrieve the rabbit myself and apologize when the time comes. But for now, I respectfully disagree with your assessment that she has to give up every last remnant of her family history in order to get well. And I rather less respectfully disagree with your idea of 'radical treatments' for me. I do not need pills, or extra sessions, or anything else that you may have planned."

"But–"

"Sir, you've seen me walk these streets for just over six months now. Excluding this incident with Mr. Splatter – which was an act of passion on my part, and which I would _dearly_ love to take back–" he added in Splatter's general direction "–do I _look_ as though I'm incompetent to handle my own affairs?"

"Your parents would disagree," Dr. Bumby said, rallying.

"My parents, particularly Mother, often act as if I never grew past the age of _five_. I've let them run my life for far too long. I should have never let them bring me here in the first place, threats to track me to the ends of the earth or no." He looked down at the rabbit, which stared back at him with its single eye. "Then again, meeting Alice makes up for a lot. . . ." He shook his head. "That doesn't matter right now. I no longer care what my parents authorize in regards to 'treatment.' I've been saying from the very start I don't need help, and now I intend to make good on that." He looked Bumby straight in the eye. "I'm not taking pills. I'm not attending extra sessions. I may even stop attending the sessions you've already scheduled. I am going to find whatever job I can in this wretched city. And once I've saved a few pounds, I'm finding a flat and moving out. And nothing you say or do can make me change my mind."

"A mad swell like yourself? Who's going to hire you?" Splatter asked, snorting.

"I'll find someone. I'll lift boxes for a living if I have to. And I'll send you all my wages for half a year if it means you'll leave me be, incidentally."

"Master Van Dort, you simply cannot do this!" Dr. Bumby shouted, clenching his hands into fists.

"I can and I will. And do you know what else? If Alice ever gets tired of you and your insistence on erasing her entire past under the guise of 'therapy,' I'll invite her to come and live with me. I don't care what anyone might say about it. Even in the West End I'm apparently known by ugly names. What harm could it possibly do to my reputation now?" Victor turned on his heel and headed for the front steps. "I am through discussing this at the moment, Dr. Bumby. I suggest you start talking to your contacts about setting up another search for Alice. I personally will be discussing the matter with the police."

"Master Van Dort, you get back here right this instant or I'll–"

Victor whirled around, his patience completely at its end. "Dr. Bumby, forgive me, but in the words of the men around here – go to hell, you blooming crow!"

Both Dr. Bumby and Jack Splatter were struck completely dumb with shock. Victor whipped away again, stalking through the front doors and to his room. There was still a part of him that was absolutely horrified that he'd ever speak that way to another human being, but it was much smaller now than when it had protested his treatment of Pris Witless. "He makes me so angry. . .I hope I got the insult right. I'm pretty sure 'crow' means 'doctor. . . .'" He sighed as he closed his door. "Well, that was an open declaration of war, wasn't it? Life's not going to be very pleasant at all for me here now. Not that it was before. . . ."

Even with the knowledge that Dr. Bumby was probably going to make him pay dearly for his little speech, Victor couldn't regret having said it. He'd nearly gotten married twice, almost taken a sword through the vitals for someone, and punched the East End's most notorious pimp in the face hard enough to knock him over and render him unconscious. It was about time people started treating him like he was actually a person. And if that included making some enemies, so be it. He sat the stuffed bunny on his bed. "I think Alice would be proud of me, don't you?"

The bunny didn't respond, of course. Victor colored as he realized talking to old soft toys didn't exactly help his case of declaring he was an adult. Ah well – at least he was in relative privacy. _And besides, that rabbit is the best conversational partner I'll get around here with Alice gone,_ he thought, sitting down next to it. _Damn it, where could she have wandered off to this time? There seems to be a correlation between her surroundings and Wonderland, but given I don't know what she saw before she disappeared from Radcliffe's, nor which domain she's likely to be called to next. . . ._ He rubbed his forehead with his fingers. _I just don't want a repeat of the stories I heard the last time she vanished. At least this time I can get the help of the police. Constable Hightopp seemed kind enough – I'll talk to him about it, ask him to keep an eye out for her. And I'll be pounding the pavement myself, if I'm able. After all, I've got to find a job as well as her. The sooner I can separate myself from my parents' allowance, the better._ He chuckled. _Spending all that money on cabs, information, and rabbits was probably a good start._

He sighed and absently petted the rabbit's head. "Perhaps it's a step backward to say this, but I wish you could come to life and lead me to her," he muttered. "You're supposed to be good at that, from what I hear. Well – sort of. Enough." He glanced down at the toy. "Please?"

The rabbit again made no reply. Victor turned his gaze to the ceiling. "Well then – wherever you are, Alice, I hope you're in a better place than I am."


End file.
